


I See That Ragged Soul Take Flight

by PrettyLittlePoutyMouth



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 315,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyLittlePoutyMouth/pseuds/PrettyLittlePoutyMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ensemble cast piece exploring what happens after Season 3. Rachel, Santana and Kurt are in New York together. Quinn is at Yale. Explores adulthood, friendship and long-distance relationships. Eventual Faberry. Also contains, Brittana, Klaine, Tike and Samcedes content, plotlines back at McKinley, and frequent use of Santana POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hard to be soft, tough to be tender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is, at heart, a Faberry story, about what happens when Rachel, Santana and Kurt live together in New York while Quinn is at Yale, but it is also an ensemble piece about what's next for basically everyone after Season 3 ended. So, while we slowly (let me stress slowly ) work towards getting Faberry together, I also hope to show a little introspection from almost all the other Glee members, including some focus on Brittana, Klaine, Tike and Samcedes. It's also centered mostly on Santana's and Quinn's perspectives, though basically everybody will get their turn.
> 
> Cross-posted on FF.net.

_Hard to be soft, tough to be tender_

 

It doesn’t take long, once Rachel returns home, for the crushing feelings of grief and panic to set in.

New York with her fathers had been great. The excitement and euphoria of _I’m actually going to be here in two months!_ had pushed everything else out of her mind. She could forget Finn’s wounded puppy eyes, his pleading voice, entreating her to remember that he would always love her. While in New York, everything seemed so clear; it had been so obvious that he was right, that she needed to go there, without him.

But now, staring at the ceiling in her childhood bedroom, remembering the times they’d held each other on this very bed, she is awash with uncertainty and despondence.

She _needs_ to talk to someone, _needs_ someone to reassure her that she is doing the right thing. Instinct wants her to call Finn. Even though he’d always required prompting to do so, he did always reassure her. Or Kurt. His reassurance is always genuine, but she knows Finn needs him more right now, and he needs Finn, and _God, his brother is joining the army!_ Panic rises in her chest at the thought, and then her heart constricts once again with the memory of Kurt’s face upon receiving his rejection letter. They’d barely talked about it. Remembering his bitterness when they ran for class president against each other, she’s been too scared of him lashing out in his pain to comfort him.

Kurt is out of the question, and Mercedes? Kurt needs Mercedes more right now. His dreams are falling apart around him, and all she’d lost was her boyfriend. _Fiancé_. She just has to keep telling herself that her dreams are bigger than him, and it would hurt less.

Just as she begins to feel herself start to wallow, choking on sobs she struggles to hold back, her phone buzzes. She winces. Her text tone is still four simple tones playing “Here comes the bride.” She needs to change that.

She grabs the phone warily, glad for the distraction but apprehensive of who it could be. Her eyebrows shoot high.

 

 **Santana Lopez** : **Word is ur back from ny.  
Find an apt?**

 

Rachel quickly composes a reply, smiling slightly in spite of her mixed grief and trepidation. She and Santana had made great strides within the past few months, but Santana had never texted her out of the blue like this.

 

 **Rachel Berry: Hello, Santana. No, I have**  
**not yet signed a lease, though my fathers**  
**and I looked at many options and will be**  
**deciding within the next few weeks. I**  
**spent a lot of time getting used to the**  
**campus and the neighborhood, and there**  
**are some great apartments nearby.**

She waits, slight smile still in place. After a minute or so it’s clear she isn’t getting a response, so she sighs and tosses her phone to the side. Just as she is glancing around her room, searching for a distraction, she hears the doorbell.

“I’ll get it!” she calls, sprinting from her room. Her fathers are likely still unpacking and, no matter who it is, answering the door has to be better than staring at her walls.

Practiced starpower grin in place automatically, Rachel pulls open the door, her expression changing at once to shock. “Quinn!”

“Hey Rach,” Quinn shrugs one shoulder in that tiny signal of nervousness Rachel had noticed a few times before. Taking in her appearance—sleeveless pale green summer dress, hair parted to the side with her bangs held back with a clip—Rachel suddenly knows exactly who she should have called. Quinn had briefly crossed her mind earlier in her panic, immediately dismissed. No matter how many times Quinn calls her a friend, Rachel has trouble believing Quinn would want to hear from her. In fact, this would be the first time Quinn has been over to her house since they had met up to practice their “I Feel Pretty/Unpretty” mashup. But here she is, and Rachel feels a kind of squeezing in her throat. Quinn has always reassured her, completely genuinely, completely without prompting.

They stare at each other for a few more moments before Rachel steps aside, “Oh my goodness, do forgive my poor manners, come in, Quinn! How did you know I was home?”

Quinn bites her lip and shakes her head, but gives no verbal response. Rachel’s brow furrows. She is beginning to get good at reading Quinn’s expressions—something she remembers Finn complaining was nearly impossible to do, though she suspects he just didn’t put in enough effort—and Quinn isn’t trying to be rude. Her wide, clear eyes tell Rachel she is struggling to say something important.

Rachel steps out onto the stoop next to Quinn, closing the front door behind her. She meets Quinn’s eye, waiting expectantly, holding back the words she longs to utter, to ask if Quinn is okay. But she knows to give Quinn a moment to collect herself.

“I wanted to apologize.” Quinn begins, her voice lower, huskier than the greeting she’d given Rachel. “I knew you were home because, well, we all knew.” She must see Rachel’s bemused expression, because her eyes shoot away and she sighs, smoothing her hair unnecessarily in another nervous gesture, one Rachel has never noticed before. “We all knew what was going to happen at the train station, and…that was so unfair. It’s so awful that we all knew your engagement was off before you did. I never, ever should have let Finn blindside you like that. It’s just, that’s what he does. He decides things _for_ other people and then manip—” she cuts herself off and meets Rachel’s gaze again, “I’m so sorry for going along with it.”

Without her typical verbal warning, Rachel reaches out and tucks herself into Quinn’s arms. It is amazing how easy it is, every time. Even her announced hugs with Kurt had always had that awkward “who puts their arms over top, do we do one arm over one arm under” dance the first several times they’d attempted. And even though Quinn and Kurt are roughly the same height (or at least _feel_ that way to Rachel, since Quinn has always carried herself so tall and Kurt is so lean he just seems small), Quinn seems to instinctively know where her arms should go; now, Rachel is on her toes, her cheek pressed into Quinn’s shoulder, Quinn’s arms around her own shoulders.

“It’s okay, Quinn. I forgive you. And…I think he was right to do what he did.” She hears and feels Quinn’s sharp intake of breath through her nose, knows Quinn instinctively wants to rebut, so she squeezes Quinn a little tighter and continues, “I don’t know if I ever would have been strong enough to break things off with him on my own, even if I know now it would have been the right thing to do. You were right.” She’s saying this mostly to comfort Quinn at this point, but as the words leave her lips, she recognizes their truth at once. Tears pool in her eyes as her doubts vanish a bit, like fog clearing, and she feels sure of her future for the first time since she came home.

Quinn seems to sense this change as Rachel lets go of a little bit more of Finn, and continues to hold her, saying nothing. Rachel inhales a ragged breath as she tries to compose herself, and Quinn merely makes a small, sympathetic hum. They both hear, without taking much notice, a car pulling up, and it isn’t until they hear the car door slam that they break apart, both pairs of questing eyes sliding to the curb.

Santana lithely steps around her car, her eyebrows lifting as she looks at Quinn. Quinn raises a single eyebrow in response, and the silent communication elicits a small grin from Santana. “Hey, Q. Sup, Berry.” She steps onto the stoop with them, bumping shoulders with Quinn in greeting and hitching her chin at Rachel in a gesture so very Puck-like that Rachel has to stifle a giggle.

Quinn smiles and murmurs “Hey, S,” in greeting, and Rachel says, “Hello, Santana. I wasn’t expecting you! You’re welcome here, of course. Why don’t you both come in?” Rachel begins to open the door.

Santana glances as Quinn questioningly, “You just got here, too?”

Quinn nods, then darts her gaze away, suddenly understanding why Santana asked. Clearly, the embrace Santana found she and Rachel in seemed too intimate to be a ‘hello.’ She misses the way Santana’s eyebrows tic up at the action.

They step inside and see one of Rachel’s fathers, Hiram, puttering around in the kitchen, apparently making tea. Rachel introduces them, and neither have the heart to remind her that they’ve met him. Everyone in Glee club—aside from Quinn—met her fathers briefly at the first aborted wedding, and again—this time including Quinn—in a much more official capacity at the train station for the second aborted wedding, when the men had left on an earlier train in order to meet her in New York. They’d gone over the plan with everyone once more; it was part of the reason Quinn and Santana knew when Rachel would be back in town. Still, Hiram takes his cue from both girls and smiles and shakes their hands, pretending right along with them. His smile is compassionate, communicating his approval of their careful attention to Rachel’s feelings, and he seems to relish the chance to feign ignorance of their identities.

Rachel offers them something to drink or a snack, bustling around the kitchen in sudden anxiety, wondering what they might have. Quinn declines politely, and Santana murmurs her own declination, lifting one shoulder in the very same way Quinn had not five minute before. Rachel barely catches the action, but when she does, she’s only puzzled a moment. Santana has channeled both Puck and Quinn, the two most confident people either of them know aside from Santana herself, since she got here. Santana is nervous. Rachel instantly ushers both girls up to her room, eager to give Santana the privacy she clearly wants.

Quinn just gives a small smile as they enter the room, her eyes darting around, and her face grows more relaxed the more she takes in, as though happy to see how little has changed in the year since she’s visited. She stands next to Santana, whose gaze is darting everywhere, as if not sure what to take in first—the huge bed with the predominantly pink bedspread, the vanity, the elliptical, the Broadway posters, the yellow walls. Rachel stands watching them, attempting a pleasant smile, until Santana meets her eye and gives her a genuine, if small, grin. “Well, it’s very you, I don’t know what else I could’ve expected.” Quinn laughs, remembering her own reaction had been very similar.

Rachel plops onto her bed and scoots back to the headboard, “Please, sit! You’re both welcome to join me on the bed, or my desk chair, wherever you like!”

Quinn, recognizing Santana’s unusual behavior the same way Rachel did, knows Santana is here for a reason and lets her take a seat first. Santana kicks off her flip-flops and tucks her jean-clad legs under her as she settles at the foot of Rachel’s bed. Quinn, with forced nonchalance, slips off her own sandals and leans against the headboard next to Rachel, not quite close enough to touch, and stretches her legs in front of her, crossing them at the ankles. She and Rachel both regard Santana patiently.

Santana chuckles and she sees both girls looking at her expectantly and attempts to defuse her own nerves, “Well, you’re both _clearly_ wondering why I’m here interrupting your makeout time.” Quinn makes a small noise that sounds like, “hmph” and averts her gaze, while Rachel just grins widely, her attention still on Santana. Santana deflects her gaze to smirk at Quinn, who doesn’t notice as she stares at Rachel’s computer desk with her brow knitted, then turns back to Rachel. “Graduation and…everything…was so crazy that I didn’t get a chance to talk to you about…something.”

Rachel nods, trying hard not to speak. She has to pretend she’s speaking to Quinn in order to successfully clamp down on the urge. There’s something about the way Quinn speaks to her that always makes her want to listen, not interrupt. For the first time, she sees such a similarity between Santana and Quinn that it shocks her momentarily. In their nervous states, they cope very similarly.

“I…I decided not to go to Louisville for college.” Santana states. Quinn nods, knowing this already, but Rachel opens her mouth to speak. Quinn’s light touch on her arm stops her, and she realizes how rude it would be to question Santana’s decision. How manipulative.

“So,” Santana continues, her eyebrows twitching slightly as she takes in Quinn’s touch, “I talked to my mom and…she has an account set up for me. And she told me that I should go to New York.” Her eyes meet Rachel’s fully. “I still don’t know what I want to do there, but I need to be in the city. And I know we still don’t really know each other that well, but god, how can I be in New York with Rachel Berry and not _be in_ New York _with_ Rachel Berry?”

Rachel’s grin is wide and takes up her whole face. It’s so close to her camera smile, but Quinn and Santana can instantly sense the difference. “You want to live with me in New York?” She sounds like she can’t quite believe it.

Santana laughs a little, trying to sound breezy as she inspects her nails. “Sure. I mean, it’ll be more cost effective. And I guess if there’s anyone who can help me figure out what it is I can get out of the city, it’s you.” Rachel beams, and Quinn smiles at Santana’s wording.

“Santana, I’m honored. Oh! I can show you pictures of the places I looked at! There are some excellent apartment complexes near campus that advertise to students, although of course you don’t have to be a student to live there, and we can do a one bedroom or—”

“Oh, hell no!” Santana’s brow furrows and her anxiety evaporates as she tilts her head aggressively, “Look, Berry, I may recently have realized I actually more than tolerate you but I am _not_ ready to sleep next to you. Two bedroom. ‘Sides, you won’t wanna be in that one bedroom with me when Britts is visiting.”

“Yeah, you really won’t,” Quinn murmurs, thinking back to the many sleepovers she’d had with the two. Rachel smirks at Quinn, looking briefly like she wants to ask something, before changing her mind and rolling her eyes at Santana in such an HBIC way that it surprises both former head cheerleaders.

“I was going to say or two bedroom, Santana, don’t worry! I’m not so adept at sharing either, being the spoiled only child of two men entirely too grateful to have the opportunity to raise a child, but if it was prices you were worried about…”

“I’m really not worried about the price,” Santana admits, eyes darting away. They land on Quinn, who smiles in understanding when she sees the vulnerability in Santana’s eyes. Santana doesn’t want to be in New York alone.

“Honestly, I’m a little jealous. I can’t think of a better roommate to have in New York than you, Rachel.” Quinn’s trying to rescue Santana, who is clearly uncomfortable reiterating that she actually _wants_ to live with Rachel, that it’s not really about cost effectiveness. But Santana starts smirking as soon as she’s said she’s jealous, and she blushes, regretting throwing Santana a bone.

Santana goes easy on Quinn, however, “Let’s just stick with the term housemates, ‘cause like I just said, not gonna be sharing a room.”

Rachel agrees to send Santana some pictures of places she’s seen, and they both agree to do a bit of searching on their own and send each other links of listings that they like. Santana seems eager to start on this right away and gets up, sliding her feet back into her flip-flops. Rachel stands, too, and she begins to escort Santana downstairs. Quinn follows, momentarily panicking about whether or not to put back on her sandals. Should she leave because Santana is leaving? She doesn’t want to, but she interrupted Rachel’s day, she hasn’t even had a chance to ask if Rachel’s busy, or if she wants to hang out. Cutting off her mental ramble, she follows Rachel and Santana downstairs without putting back on her own shoes. Rachel is giving Santana a hug—prefaced, Quinn notices, with an “I’m going to hug you now.”—and is opening the door for her. Quinn feels warmth spread in her chest when she realizes she’s standing next to Rachel, watching Santana leave, and Rachel hasn’t given a single indication that she expects Quinn to leave, also.

Quinn’s happy surprise exists right alongside Santana’s curious attention. Her eyes dart to Quinn’s bare feet beside Rachel’s as they stand in the doorway together. She shoots Quinn a wicked grin and calls “I’ll email you apartment stuff later, Berry. Q, I’ll call you tomorrow. Lates, chicas.”

Rachel and Quinn wave and Rachel shuts the door as Santana’s car starts to pull away. She turns and smiles at Quinn, their eyes locking like they always seem to do so easily. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Quinn is sure she hears the “I’m so glad we’re friends” hidden somewhere in the simple sentence. So she smiles her response and says, “Me, too.” Wondering what they’ll do together, really hanging out alone for the first time, but knowing that whatever it, she’ll enjoy it.

They end up baking dark chocolate chip peanut butter cookies, ordering Thai and scrolling through Rachel’s Netflix while nestled against Rachel’s headboard with pillows propped behind them. They watch a few episodes of The X-Files because Quinn remembers really admiring Agent Scully when she caught a few reruns on TV late at night Sophomore year when she was fighting the insomnia the stress of pregnancy gave her (which, of course she would like Scully, right? The episode that drew her in had a very pregnant Scully, cross around her neck, going into labor and being tended to by a beautiful dark-eyed brunette woman, and wasn’t David Duchovny supposed to be on this show? When he appeared, Quinn wondered why he was needed at all). They also watch a few episodes of Ally McBeal, because Rachel says the show is like a secret musical and she remembers karaoke playing a large role (although this doesn’t seem to be the case in the first few episodes, and the fact that Ally is clearly pining over an ex boyfriend makes Quinn eye Rachel nervously, but Rachel doesn’t seem affected, and instead just keeps commenting that she wonders what ever happened to Calista Flockhart, she was so gorgeous and had great comedic timing…)

Something about Calista Flockhart reminds Quinn of Sarah Michelle Gellar, and she remembers enjoying the reruns of Buffy she would also sometimes catch late at night as an insomniac in Finn’s or Puck’s living room (and, of course, because the episode that drew her into _that_ show had been about Buffy losing her virginity, and her entire world crashing down around her as a result, and when Buffy ended her traumatic day curled up with her mother on the couch, Quinn had cried self-pitying tears that this was not a possibility for _her_ …). She suggests an episode of Buffy, but sees then how exhausted Rachel looks. She also has heard Rachel’s phone singing incessantly for the past half hour, recognizing it as Stevie Wonder singing just the phrase “Signed, sealed, delivered.” He sings again, and Quinn smiles, “I’ve been assuming that’s your email alert?”

Rachel chuckles, “What tipped you off?” and clicks the phone a few times, as though taking Quinn’s attention on her phone as permission to check it. Her eyebrows arch. “They’re all from Santana.” She opens another tab on her laptop and clicks her email. Quinn looks away, afraid of what she’ll see in Rachel’s inbox, but Rachel’s snort brings her eyes back to the screen. An email is open with a link and the words “this one has coin-op laundry in the basement. hells to the no to the laundromat.”

Quinn watches as Rachel scrolls through Santana’s emails, chuckling with her at Santana’s assessments (“sweet jesus central air!” “this one allows pets, Britts would love if I had a cat” “dishwasher, check it.”) Quinn sits quietly while Rachel scrolls through the pictures in the listings, eager to have an idea of what Rachel’s future apartment will look like. Rachel seems to appreciate Quinn’s assessments of the pictures as well, whether she’s commenting that it’s surprisingly roomy, or the hardwood floors are gorgeous, or the windows will let in so much natural light.

Rachel stretches, arching her back so that her tank top rides up, and Quinn takes this as her cue and slides off the bed, averting her eyes. “It’s late and you’re tired, and you should probably respond to Santana before you go to bed or she’ll take it personally and go Lima Heights Adjacent on you or something.” Quinn tries to deflect from her sudden awkward feeling.

Rachel smiles, the lilt of her eyelids betraying her obvious exhaustion, and she gets off the bed, too. “Yes, you’re right, of course. Thank you for coming over, Quinn, I greatly enjoyed your company.”

“Me too,” Quinn says quietly, facing Rachel again now that her sandals are on, “We should…do it again soon? I mean, it’s our last summer all together. Let’s make it count.” She’s suddenly afraid to admit how much she wants to hang out with _just Rachel_ and drags in the vague mention of the rest of the Glee club, waving her hand expansively as if the rest of the club are in the room with them.

Rachel nods, and Quinn notices the flicker of worry in her eyes. Of course. The rest of the Glee club includes Finn. “I’d like to take you up on that episode of Buffy sometime soon as well.”

“I’d like that,” Quinn smiles.

Rachel walks her to the door, they share one of those unprompted hugs that Quinn wonders if she’s the only person to receive, and she drives home, smiling ghosting her lips the whole way.

And at some point after they part, both have the same thought at the same moment. _That girl is my best friend_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Title is from Joni Mitchell, "Black Crow." Chapter title is from Metric, "Help I'm Alive."


	2. You in those little hot waisted shorts

_You in those little hot waisted shorts_

 

Santana does call Quinn the next day, and they end up lounging next to the pool at Brittany’s house. Santana never bothers with sunblock, claiming her daily body lotion is SPF 15 and she’s never been sunburned before anyway, but Quinn slathers up obsessively, not trusting her own pale complexion not to scorch—the only path to a tan for her involved a good deal of burning first. Truth be told, she’d never even used the free tanning that had been a Cheerios perk; even that was likely to turn her more red than bronze. She reminds Brittany to reapply constantly, remembering Brittany’s puppy-dog face the time she got a bad sunburn at cheer camp. The only other time she’d seen Brittany that miserable was Junior year, when things between her and Santana had gotten strange, and she never wanted to see that kind of pain on Brittany’s face ever again.

Santana checks her phone in the early afternoon, and takes off her sunglasses to peer closer, clicking and swiping her fingers around. Brittany drapes herself over Santana’s lap and looks with her. Quinn sets aside her book— _Mrs. Dalloway_ , which she’d chosen as a college preparation of sorts—and lifts her sunglasses to watch, her interest now piqued as she’s the only one out of the loop. Santana catches her eye and answers her unasked question, “Email from Rachel. Apartment stuff.”

Brittany glances between them and asks casually, “Oh, do you want to invite her over? Quinn, call her!”

Quinn’s breath catches oddly and she fumbles, “But it’s your house, Britt, shouldn’t you?”

Brittany waves a hand, “I left my phone upstairs, and Santana is busy on hers. You do it!”

Quinn is sure she saw Brittany’s phone an hour ago, but she calls Rachel anyway. Rachel answers her phone so formally (“Rachel Berry speaking”) that Quinn finds herself saying that, “Ms. Pierce requests your company at the Chateau Pierce at the” she glances at her phone for the time. 1:35. “fourteenth hour. You are requested to arrive attired in water-appropriate apparel.”

Rachel laughs, and Quinn is glad she stood up and walked a few paces so that her back was to Brittany and Santana because she’s sure she’s blushing. Or maybe it’s just time to reapply her sunscreen. “I accept the invitation, thank you, Ms. Fabray. Shall I bring anything else? Ooh, I’ll bring the rest of the cookies!”

“That would be acceptable,” Quinn nods, “We await your arrival.”

Quinn hangs up grinning, half embarrassed by what a dork she so clearly is ( _X-Files_ , _Buffy_ and now this? God help her) and half pleased to have heard Rachel laugh. She strides back to her seat, seeing that Brittany is still sprawled half over Santana, who has reclined again, her sunglasses back in place. “I would ask what the fuck that was, but I don’t think I really want to know,” Santana drones, relaxed, one hand absently stroking Brittany’s side.

“Shut up,” Quinn responds mildly, dropping back into her own seat and reapplying her sunscreen.

Rachel arrives right on time, not that the time Quinn chose was anything other than arbitrary. She comes through the sliding door into the backyard, with a greeting and the explanation, “Rory let me in.”

Brittany bounds up to welcome her, then looks surprised, “Oh, is he home? I never see him,” and proceeds to offer Rachel some lemonade.

Santana stays in her chair and merely lifts a lazy hand, “Berry,” she greets.

Quinn gets up after Brittany, smiling as she takes in Rachel in a tank top and jean shorts. She takes the plate of cookies from Rachel and immediately pops one into her mouth and wanders off with the rest. “Hey!” Rachel calls, laughing.

Setting the plate down on the patio table, Quinn turns and gives Rachel a real smile, “Hey, Rachel.”

Brittany brings Rachel a glass of lemonade and shows her where she can leave her clothes—under the awning, so they won’t get wet in case of an unexpected summer thunderstorm. Rachel peels them off and Quinn slides on her sunglasses to mask her… _curiosity_ about Rachel’s choice of swimwear. It’s a two-piece that ties around her back and around her neck, with a bottom that’s as sinfully cut as her skirts. Santana and Brittany wear similarly skimpy suits—string bikinis, really.

But Quinn has always preferred a slightly more modest cut—still two-piece, sure, but as she knows she’ll barely tan, she doesn’t worry about tan lines and chooses suits that won’t show the stretch marks on her hips and upper thighs and won’t emphasize her lack of cleavage. A bit closer in cut to booty shorts and a sports bra. She’s still occasionally self-conscious about her body, obviously. Most of the stretch marks on her thighs are from puberty, which had not been kind to Lucy, multiplying her baby fat to just plain fat, and giving her child-bearing hips that would, sooner than Lucy could ever have imagined, be so useful. But her thighs were the only place she got stretch marks then, luckily. She’d also managed to dodge most of them during her pregnancy, thanks in part to Mrs. Jones and some luck. When she’d arrived at Mercedes’s, Mrs. Jones, who she’d immediately pegged as a quiet, hard-working woman, had knocked on her door after dinner that evening, bearing a cylinder of something. She held it up with a small smile, “Cocoa butter. Does wonders for stretch marks, I know from experience.” She showed Quinn how to soften it with a hairdryer and recommended where to apply it preemptively. Now, Quinn can see a few white lines above her hips, but really, they could be much more prominent, and she is forever grateful to Mercedes and to Mrs. Jones.

She knows her friendship with Mercedes drifted. There’s still love there, a sisterly connection, but for awhile, it was hard to talk. But she thinks Mercedes understands. She is, and will always be a Fabray, and will always have too much pride. It’s hard to be in Mercedes’s presence without feeling like she owes her so much more than can ever be repaid.

And she has a moment, then, where she thanks God that stretch marks may someday be the biggest marring of her skin that she has to worry about. That somehow she came out of that accident with scars that are already fading from angry pink to approximating her skin tone—and, yeah, she can wear a bathing suit now without feeling horrific. Which…she’s been so lucky—she thinks she hazily remembers something about lasers and laparoscopy and other things she hadn’t wanted to think about at the time, but God, her window had shattered bits of glass all into her _face_ and yet…remarkably smooth skin replaced it. The worst wounds, there had been money to treat with more lasers several weeks later—worth it, her mother had claimed, to put the incident behind her, even if it was purely cosmetic and even if she wasn’t walking yet—and didn’t know if she ever would. For the smaller cuts, there had been anti-scarification lotions and creams. Her mother had helped her apply it, when she’d been so emotionally and mentally paralyzed by the fact that she was _physically_ paralyzed, and she’s kept up applying it, the skin constantly improving. But really, all this thankfulness is secondary to the fact that she can stand right now, or walk. Or dance.

So she doesn’t want to show much hips, thighs or breasts (her insecurity about her breasts being so much easier to place, overhearing Finn complain to Puck once that even though they were so small, he was still desperate to feel them; she’d glanced down at herself, feeling strangely betrayed by the body she’d suffered so much for—and the fact that Puck’s response hadn’t been lewd for the first time in his life may have been a factor in her semi-rational decision to sleep with him not long after). But her ass, well, there’s no hiding that. She’s tried to embrace that some things will never change, and Lucy’s ass is with her for life. And showing off her abs—that’s a must. She works hard for them, after all. Quinn snaps her gaze away from Rachel’s abs as the girl approaches, but not before noticing that they looked worked for, too.

Rachel sits primly on the chair between Quinn and Santana, the one Brittany had been using before she decided she’d rather share with Santana. She glances at Quinn, “Doesn’t anyone get in the water?”

Santana tries to scoff, but then frowns, “I guess we haven’t actually gone swimming yet. You down for a dip, B?”

Brittany nods enthusiastically and slides gracefully to her feet. Her long strides take her to the diving board, where she executes a backflip that has Santana humming throatily in appreciation. Santana tosses her sunglasses aside and prances to the edge of the pool, where she cannonballs in as close to Brittany as she can get without it being dangerous. Brittany shrieks with laughter and grabs Santana as she resurfaces. Rachel glances at Quinn and grins, and Quinn can’t help but smile fully back, folding her own sunglasses on top of her book. Rachel performs a beautiful swan dive that draws applause from Brittany and Santana, and Quinn can’t help but leap into one of her well-known sky splits, eager to just get into the water.

They splash around for a long while, playing keep away, throwing around foam balls they find scattered around the edge of the pool, trying to walk along the bottom of the deep end, floating lazily. In a surprisingly stern voice, Brittany absolutely forbids a game of Marco Polo, claiming she never escapes those shouts from her younger sister and her friends all summer.

As they lay back down, letting the sun dry them, Quinn finds herself drifting nearly to sleep. She looks over to see Brittany curled on her side, smiling and watching Santana, who sits close to Rachel, both poring over apartment listings on Santana’s phone and chattering excitedly, occasionally bickering, with Santana narrowing her eyes dangerously and Rachel stomping a foot even sitting down. Quinn smiles lazily. She really can’t wait to see how this turns out.

 

_He said return the ring, he knows so much about these things_

 

About a week later finds the same four girls in Brittany’s living room, spread out onto the comfiest couch together, scrolling through Netflix on Brittany’s sister’s Wii on the large television. It’s been storming on and off the whole day, so Santana had suggested a movie marathon. They get immediately sidetracked from that idea by Santana herself, who is weirdly obsessed with _30 Rock_ , and takes the Wiimote from Brittany to click on it. Brittany shrugs and says she likes this idea, because she thinks Tina Fey and Tracy Morgan are both kinda hot. Rachel admits that she’s never actually seen a whole episode and Santana groans loudly, “I swear to god, Berry, I don’t know how I’m going to live with you if you stay this pop-culturally retarded.” Brittany and Quinn both glance at Rachel worriedly, but she’s grinning.

“Are you offering to take it upon yourself to re-educate me, Santana?” she asks.

Santana just scoffs in response. “Whatever. Sure. Starting now.”

Quinn stays quiet. For whatever reason, she just has never gotten into the show. Sometimes it’s funny enough to make her smile, but rarely makes her laugh (Santana takes this as a personal affront and says it’s because she’s a “frigid bitch”), and it certainly has never made her laugh the way it does Santana, who almost immediately is leaning into Brittany and cracking up. Soon, Rachel’s giggling, too, but part of her reason seems to be Santana herself, who has started repeating the lines she finds hilarious as she laughs.

As they watch, they are interrupted by three phones chiming in unison—Quinn’s Jim Croce crooning the single word “Operator” from her purse, Santana’s Die Antwoord rapping “I fink you freaky and I like you a lot” from her pocket, and Brittany’s recording of Lord Tubbington meowing from the coffee table. The Unholy Trinity exchange sly glances, while Rachel looks on in interest. Brittany gets to her phone first. “It’s Puck,” she confirms for Quinn and Santana, who know a mass text is usually a sign of a Puck party, “He’s throwing a going away party for Finn.” She winces as soon as she’s finished the sentence.

The Trinity eye Rachel warily for a few moments. She’s taken a breath and then forced a smile. The fact that her phone didn’t buzz sinks in heavily in those moments. Forgotten, onscreen, Tracy Morgan breaks down crying over traumatic events in his childhood. Finally, Rachel speaks, her voice low, “I didn’t think he was leaving until next month. When is it?”

Santana glances at her phone and swallows. “Friday.” Her voice is almost as low as Rachel’s. Quinn realizes she never actually finished taking her phone out of her bag. She’s been frozen since Brittany said _his_ name.

There’s silence for a few more moments, until abruptly Rachel’s phone sings out “I’m defying gravity!” Thankful that she remembered to change her text tone, Rachel opens the message, aware that all eyes are on her.

“It’s Noah,” she murmurs, “He…wanted to send my invitation separately. Says he understands I may not want to attend, but that he thinks it would be good for Finn. And for me.”

There are another few moments of silence in which no one can come up with anything to say. Quinn’s brain is screaming that it’s too soon for them to see each other, they _just_ broke up two weeks ago, for Christ’s sake. Santana is gritting her teeth with the effort of not saying anything about just how _disgusting_ Finn and Rachel were as a couple. Finally, Brittany speaks, “San, I don’t know if I want to go.”

Santana’s surprised, “Wait, what? Why not?”

Brittany doesn’t look at all uncomfortable as she bluntly replies, “I don’t actually like Finn that much.”

Santana looks shocked, and Quinn tries not to look at Rachel, whose head has turned toward Brittany, neither slowly nor quickly, giving zero indication of her thoughts.

“Really? Why not?” Quinn asks, hoping that Rachel will glance at her so she can get a read of the girl’s expression.

Brittany turns wide, blue eyes to Quinn, “You sound surprised, Q. I didn’t think you liked him, either.”

Quinn grits her teeth, frustrated to have the question turned back to her, “Well, I mean. No. I don’t dislike him. He can be a good friend. But he does upset me sometimes. And I guess sometimes it’s hard for me to separate the bitter feelings that come from the fact that he’s my ex, and that we hurt each other a lot when we were together, and who he is as a friend.” Rachel is watching this explanation, and from the corner of her eye, Quinn catches her expression. It’s fighting to remain neutral, with wide eyes the indication of her rapt attention.

Brittany hums a little, “Okay. I get that. I mean, part of why I don’t like him is similar. Santana took his big V. They’ll always have that sticky, sweaty bond.” She looks at Santana, who is fighting a grimace, “Kind of like how you will never get along with Artie, even though he’s so cool, being part robot, like an android or whatever.”

Santana scoffs, “I don’t hate Wheels,” she mutters hollowly.

“Okay. So that’s part of why? I mean, Santana and Puck slept together all the time and you don’t hate him.” Quinn (dimly registering Santana’s huff at again being dragged in for comparison) doesn’t know why she’s pushing this. She’s just surprised to hear Brittany admit this. Brittany so rarely actually feuds with someone—the hair gel ban at Prom being the only one within a year that Quinn can think of, not to mention the weirdest—she usually just got in her digs at people and then was over it. 

“Well, yeah. But he can also just be so mean. Like San, when he told everyone about you. That’s not okay. I heard that a unicorn has to decide for itself when it wants to go down the rainbow slide or it might lose its footing and fall out of the sky.”

Rachel and Quinn side-eye each other, blinking, for a moment, until it dawns on them simultaneously what Brittany means. Santana, of course, understands immediately and says, “Britt, it wasn’t that bad.” Brittany shakes her head, her blue eyes boring into Santana’s, until Santana glances away and says, “Okay, yeah, I mean, I was _super_ pissed when it all started, You’re right, I wasn’t ready. But I forgave him, because when it was over, I felt better. It wasn’t hanging over my head anymore.”

Brittany shrugs, “I wish I had said some of these things to him at the time, but I was practicing diplomacy. It’s hard to be president. I didn’t want to be quoted saying anything bad so I just stopped talking for awhile. It’s okay, though. I’ll have a clean record when I run again this year.” Brittany then turns to Quinn. “But also at Prom. When he tried to yank you out of your wheelchair. That was—”

“Wait, what?!” Rachel squeaks, turning to Quinn so quickly that her hair nearly whips Brittany in the face. “He did _what_ to you?”

“You…didn’t hear?” Quinn asks hesitantly.

“Okay,” Rachel begins, turning to Santana and chopping the air emphatically with her hands as she speaks, “I will admit that when I realized that Finn had outed you that I was upset on your behalf, but by that juncture, you had already absolved him, and because I had been so busy with other things that I never quite put together _how_ it had happened to you until much later, I never had a conversation with him about how inconsiderate he was to you, and I very much should have. Or Kurt should have. And I’m sorry to say that I took a Machiavellian approach and decided the ends justified the means, because you did seem so relieved. But Quinn,” she turns back to Quinn, her eyes large and almost afraid, “Quinn, that’s…how could he have done that to you?”

Sighing and running a hand through her hair, which is down and kind of artfully messy today, Quinn tries to decide how to answer Rachel, “Don’t worry about it, Rachel. He…he walked into the girls’ bathroom—” (an indignant squawk from Rachel) “—and found me standing up. He didn’t listen when I told him I was still so weak, and wanted to show people my progress at the right moment, and he thought I was pretending to be more crippled than I was to get votes.”

Rachel shakes her head slowly, “That’s…” but doesn’t seem to be able to formulate a response.

Santana changes the subject, “Look, he can be a douchenozzle sometimes, but he’s like, _sort of_ our friend and this _is_ a Puck party, guys. No way I’m missing it.”

Brittany settles against her and says, “I’ll come to watch you then. Make sure you don’t do anything Lord Tubbington wouldn’t do.”

“Don’t worry, B, I’ll be DD, you can have fun” Quinn cuts in, “You know I never drink at Puck parties anymore.”

“What about you, Rach?” Brittany asks, “and I mean, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t think we were trying to like make Finn look bad or something,”

“Like he needs any help, look at him, I’ve seen more attractive sea lions.” Santana interrupts, forcing a smirk, trying to regain her footing after the uncomfortable conversation.

Brittany bumps her knee, “You’re a lady unicorn, of course you don’t think he’s pretty.”

Rachel smiles at this exchange and says, “Thank you, Brittany, but your apology isn’t necessary. I have no need to defend him, and I do hope that a military lifestyle will help him mature. But yes. I think I will go.”

Quinn feels her throat going dry at this admission. Unable to decipher why, she feels like she needs space, and launches off the couch, “You guys want me to order a pizza?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from The Neighbourhood, “Sweater Weather” and The Smiths, “This Charming Man” (I particularly enjoy The Reborn Identity’s mashup of this song with Lana Del Rey, “Video Games,” called “This Charming Video Game”). Other songs mentioned include Jim Croce, “Operator” (I like the Tori Amos cover as well), Die Antwoord, “I Fink U Freeky” and, of course, “Defying Gravity” from Wicked.
> 
> My treatment of the aftermath of Quinn’s accident is intentionally somewhat unrealistic, as an eye-roll because I sort of anticipate the canon will treat it as something without real repercussions. It served its function as a plot device.


	3. The tinge of my eyes is familiar

_The tinge of my eyes is familiar_

 

When Quinn pulls up to Rachel’s house on Friday, Santana and Brittany are already squeezed into the backseat, holding hands and whispering and giggling. Quinn would be irritated to be the chauffer that they aren’t even talking to if she wasn’t so used to it, and a glance in her rearview mirror shows Santana wearing a face-splitting smile as she regards Brittany, which softens Quinn’s own expression.

She’s about to get out of the car to ring Rachel’s doorbell when the front door opens and Rachel comes walking briskly out. Quinn stares, and momentarily realizes she’s not the only one when the whispers in the backseat cease.

She’s wearing a tight black strapless dress that stops at mid-thigh and two-inch heels, while carrying a little black clutch. A wispy, short-sleeved black cardigan completes the look, but Quinn knows the cardigan won’t stay on long with the hot throngs of people at Puck’s. Quinn feels underdressed, but at least she’s wearing a dress (a pale pink knee-length one that ties around the waist); Santana and Brittany are in a short-sleeved button down and jeans, and a v-neck, jean shorts and suspenders, respectively.

Rachel opens the passenger door and smiles widely at Quinn, “Hello, Quinn, Santana, Brittany.”

“Damn, Berry,” Santana drawls, “Showing Finnept what he’ll be missing?”

Rachel purses her lips and ducks her head, while Brittany says quizzically, “Rachel, I think your legs might be the same length as mine, which is confusing because you’re like, tiny. Oh, you’re like, the opposite of those miniature horses.”

Quinn puts the car into drive and tries to swallow the lump in her throat. “You do look nice, Rach. You’re definitely going to turn heads.” Rachel murmurs her thanks, her head still ducked, and Quinn pulls away from the curb slowly. On the drive to Puck’s both hands never leave the wheel and she drives exactly the speed limit, but her mind is racing. Little Black Dress could mean spiting one’s ex, sure, or winning him back. It’s been an irrational terror in the back of her mind since Rachel decided to go to the party. They were finished…right?

_I know this goddamn life too well_

 

It’s about an hour into the party, and Rachel has definitely been turning heads. In fact, as soon as she had arrived, she had garnered a lewd comment from Puck, which had earned him a slap on the arm and a laugh. Quinn sips on her Sprite and surveys the room, Sam having just excused himself from their conversation. The guests consist of the Glee club as well as some of the football players, basketball players and cheerleaders, but Quinn finds it funny that even after graduation, everyone pretty much stays in their cliques.

She’s been mostly keeping an eye on Rachel, due to the obvious interest in her appearance, though she is looking after Brittany and Santana, too; the latter two are currently wrapped up in each other on an armchair, kissing languidly. She’s also been occasionally getting visual confirmation of the other women in Glee club who are in attendance. At this moment, Rachel, who has most recently been catching up with Mercedes and Tina, catches her eye and grins, walking over to her. Quinn arches an eyebrow as Rachel wobbles slightly, “Are you sure those heels are going to be a good idea in another, oh, twenty minutes?”

Rachel chuckles and hands Quinn her drink, then rests a hand on Quinn’s shoulder to pull the heels off, “I think you may be right, Quinn, though they do make my legs look amazing.” Quinn makes a noise of agreement that sounds like a “heh” that got caught in the back of her throat, but doesn’t actually say anything. She then smiles and hands Rachel her drink back once she’s set her shoes aside.

“So what is your reason for refraining from drinking at Noah’s?” Rachel asks, bluntly.

Quinn can’t conceal her surprise, and the eyebrow bounces up again. “I’d think _that_ would be obvious.”

Rachel frowns, “You’re afraid you’ll become intoxicated and engage in unprotected sex with Noah again? I doubt either of you would let that happen.”

Quinn shakes her head, “No. I know for a fact that I will never sleep with Puck again, even if I were actually drunk.” Rachel’s expression shifts into something between surprise and confusion, but Quinn continues on the original topic, “I do it so I can keep an eye on people I care about. Puck’s parties are infamous for hookups, moreso than anyone else’s. I just don’t want anyone I know to make the kind of mistake I did—even if I don’t think Puck could ever make that mistake again, considering he got snipped and is also, I think, more careful in general, some other guy and some other girl might. If nothing else,” Quinn's mouth twists, "I can get them a condom."

“It’s very noble of you,” Rachel says, warmly, leaning into her. Quinn chuckles. Rachel continues on somewhat blithely, “I wonder if it’s also because you don’t enjoy yourself when you drink. Finn says you’re a rather angry drunk.”

Quinn scowls, “That is…ugh. Fine, occasionally, probably, that may be true. But why Finn felt the need to share this with you, I can’t imagine.”

That’s when Rachel frowns, “Oh. Well, actually, I guess he was trying to make the point that I was an annoying, needy drunk,” she says quietly, leaning into Quinn a little more. Quinn automatically slips an arm around her to steady her. “Which may explain why I have been invading your personal space without any particular intention to do so, Quinn, I do apologize.”

“Don’t apologize,” Quinn says firmly, “This is neither annoying nor needy,” She smiles down at Rachel, but internally, she’s still angry at Finn’s words. What gave him the right to call her that? To call _either_ of them what he did? Quinn fumbles, “If anything, I’d say you’re more of an affectionate drunk, and that’s certainly not a bad thing.”

“Well, I suppose it could be if said affectionee did not wish to receive it.”

“Is that even a word?” Quinn chuckles. “Besides, you can’t be very drunk yet.”

“No,” Rachel agrees, “I’m not. I guess it doesn’t take much for me to get affectionate, or clingy, depending on who you ask.”

Quinn forces a smile, realizing she’s put herself into the affectionate camp already, which means she is an “affectionee” that does wish to receive Rachel’s affection. Which…well, aside from making her head hurt, is hard to explain. “And for you to lose your filter, or what amounts to your filter, anyway” she grins, downing her Sprite. “I’m going to get more soda. Do you want another drink? You’re getting low.”

“Please! Vodka cranberry?” Rachel requests, beaming.

Quinn smiles indulgently, “Alright, but next you’re drinking a water,” she points a parental finger at her, then takes Rachel’s cup and walks toward the kitchen.

Rachel watches Quinn go and then turns to see Kurt looking at her. Their eyes meet and he gives her a small smile, which she takes as the invitation it is and approaches him. Her eyes dart around automatically for Blaine, and spot him a few feet away, talking animatedly with Sam and Artie, while Mercedes looks on with a slightly horrified expression.

“Hello, Kurt,” she says softly.

Kurt smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “Hello, Rachel. I…well.” He rubs at the wrist of the hand that is holding his drink. “I’m sorry that things are weird,” he says quietly.

“Me, too.” It’s all she can think of to say.

Kurt takes a deep breath, “Alright. Yes. I’m jealous you got into NYADA and I didn’t. And I don’t think it’s at all fair that you choked on your first audition but then got to have a second one by badgering the hell out of Carmen Tibideaux. And right, maybe I should have done something different with my application, I could’ve put my time on the football team and the Cheerios on there, but I was too afraid the fact that I wasn’t on those teams long would make me look like a quitter. But still. I’m jealous and a little angry.”

“I understand,” Rachel says, her voice low, as she tries to mask her hurt, “I was, frankly, shocked. Your audition was brilliant.”

Kurt smiles faintly at this, and it does reach his eyes. “I know,” he says, without a hint of false modesty. At this moment, Quinn comes by with Rachel’s drink. She senses the awkwardness immediately and meets Rachel’s eye with obvious concern. Rachel smiles reassuringly and Quinn returns the smile, squeezing Rachel’s shoulder. She then turns to Kurt and gives him a very…sisterly smile, are the only words Rachel can think of to describe it, and Kurt returns it with that same undertone of familiarity. Quinn’s hand moves to squeeze his shoulder, and she wanders off.

Eyes shifting back to Rachel, Kurt sighs again, “And the fact that your engagement is off…I know you must understand it puts me in a weird place. You…you know I never really chose sides, don’t you?”

Rachel shakes her head quickly, “No, no, I do understand, Kurt. Finn needed you more than I did. He’s your brother.”

Her use of past tense doesn’t escape his notice, but he doesn’t comment on it. “Yes, he is. My idiot brother who I am terrified is going to go and get himself blown up.” Kurt’s eyes become distant.

“I’m scared of that, too,” Rachel says, which is the only thing she can think of to say again. Talking to Kurt hasn’t been this disorienting for at least a year now.

“Carole is freaking out,” Kurt confides quietly, “and of course my dad has Washington coming up, so we’re all kind of freaking out about that, too. It’s a mess. A hot, gay mess. It’s just…my family needs me right now, Rachel.”

Rachel nods dumbly, keeping her expression tender and understanding, but she’s not quite sure what Kurt’s getting at.

“So. I want you to know that we’re still friends. You’re still one of my best friends, in fact. I’m just not going to be able to act like it anytime soon. I barely have time for Blaine. And I’m sad to say I’ve been neglecting Mercedes, too. But it’s also probably a good thing, because I may still need time to stop being so flamingly jealous of you. But we’ll get there, Rachel. I still love you.”

Her smile threatens to halve her face, but she can’t stop her eyes from tearing up. Kurt’s eyes are threatening the same, and he shakes his head. “None of that. Our mascara will run.”

“I’m going to hug you now,” she murmurs, and he actually _titters_ and opens his arms.

Quinn stands next to Santana and Brittany’s armchair, though the two are still pretty well wrapped up in each other and haven’t done much more than greet her with grunts—at least, she thinks those were greetings—since she came over to them. So she watches Rachel’s exchange with Kurt, attempting to sooth the worry in her gut that rose when she saw their troubled expressions and hasn’t quite gone away, even with their assurances. She barely notices when Brittany and Santana get up to get more drinks and possibly to pay a visit to the laundry room (she dimly registers Brittany mentioning the “vibrating dryer.”)

A “Sup, baby mama” interrupts her blatant staring and she turns and gives Puck a tight smile. “Hi, Puck.”

He smiles genuinely, an expression so unusual on his perpetually smirking face that Quinn is momentarily taken aback, and the twisting in her gut returns. She gropes for something to say. “So why is it this party is like a month early? It’s not like you’ve ever needed an excuse to throw one before.”

“Ah, that.” Puck’s grin turns slightly sheepish, “Well, it’s a party for me and Finn both, actually.”

Quinn’s mouth drops open, “Tell me you are not a big enough _moron_ to join the army, Puckerman!” she pokes his chest hard with a finger.

Puck holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, “Hold up, Q. No way. I wouldn’t last a week, the Puckasaurus doesn’t take kindly to anyone telling him what to do…unless they’re wearing a corset and holding a cat-o-nine tails, of course.”

Quinn rubs at her face, fully aware that she’s blushing, and rolls her eyes, “Then what the hell?” she cuts to the chase, her HBIC voice making a cameo.

Rolling his shoulders, Puck says, “Well, we’ve been neglecting our friendship for years now. There was that whole me knocking you up thing, and letting Rachel cheat on him with me, and then he’s been so wrapped up in that engagement, that we just haven’t hung out. We need to rekindle our bromance.”

Wrinkling her nose, Quinn mutters, “Ew.”

Puck snorts, then continues, “So we’re gonna take a road trip out to California together. And I’m gonna see if there’s anything out there that makes me want to stay.”

“What?!” Quinn grabs Puck by the ear and drags him a few feet away, just because she can, “Again, I ask, are you a _moron_?! You can’t just up and move across the country like that!”

“Chill out!” He rubs his ear, “S’not like there’s much tying me here.”

Quinn rolls her eyes, “Right, it’s not like you mom and sister live here. Not like your mom works insane hours, like right freaking now, and occasionally needs some help with your sister.”

“I’ve just gotta do this, okay? Find out. Make sure. I’ll probably be back in Lima before the end of July.”

“Right,” Quinn concedes, forcing herself to calm down. “You’re right. It’s irrational, really. I guess I just felt like with me and you both leaving, no one will be nearby if Beth needs us. For whatever reason.”

Puck nods, then hesitates, “That’s the only reason?” he asks, with a hint of skepticism in his voice, and Quinn’s stomach drops. It’s in this moment that she regrets ever telling him she loved him. It had seemed exactly the right thing to do at the time; if there was anything McKinley High School had taught her, it was how to manipulate, and she knew _just_ how to manipulate a guy like Puck to boost his confidence. But she hadn’t been lying to Rachel when she’d told her that ship had long since sailed (if it had even left the port), though she had to admit the idea had been inspired by Rachel. She thought Rachel was absolutely wrong, of course, because she hadn’t been able to see the inside of her quasi-relationship with Puck, with all the bullshit he put her through after knocking her up, no less. Quinn personally thought he had been at his best with Lauren Zizes, who simply did not take Puck’s shit—something Quinn assumes she might have done herself had she cared and had her life not been in a spiral every time she and Puck danced around the concept of a relationship.

There is also a part of her that’s irritated that Puck hadn’t been able to, in retrospect, figure out that she was lying. For the love of God, she had told him she’d fallen in love with him because he had been a good _football player_. _Anyone_ could see that she was in Cheerios for the sport and status, not because she gave a damn about football. He really was a moron sometimes.

So she just regards him gravely and says, “Yeah, Puck. That’s all. Look, you’ll always have a piece of my heart, but that’s because Beth will always have a piece of my heart, and she is half you. We’ll always be bonded together, and I’ll always care about you.” That part she had told him was the absolute truth; she knew they were bonded for life, and had no desire to change that. “But that’s it. We’re friends. In some ways, the closest friends either of us will ever have.” He nods thoughtfully, his eyes shooting away. She knows he’s no longer in love with her, but hearing her tell him she’s not in love with him still must be a blow to his ego. So she grins and goes on, “So that’s why you’re always going to tell me exactly where you are in the world. Daily texts on this roadtrip, Puckerman. Daily.”

This time he does smirk, and Quinn is relieved. “Alright, baby mama. I guess you looking over my shoulder all my life won’t cramp my style _too_ much. But just know that if you remain on the top of my text or call lists, you’re gonna be the one to get my drunk dials.”

An honest-to-God snort escapes her, and she covers her nose in embarrassment. “I look forward to it.”

Giving her shoulder a playful nudge, Puck wanders over to the stereo and turns it down, then hollers, “HUDSON! Get your ass in here so I can make a toast!”

Everyone cheers at this, and Finn comes loping into the living room from the kitchen, where he’d been playing drinking games with the football and basketball team for most of the night (Quinn suspects that he’s been avoiding the Glee club congregated in the living room, which obviously contains Rachel). His cheeks are flushed and he’s grinning, and he slaps Puck on the back, hard, when he sidles up next to him. Puck responds by punching his shoulder just as hard, and Finn slops a bit of beer out of his cup. The two boys lock eyes and then laugh.

Puck grins broadly and raises his own Solo cup, with enough force that he loses some of his own beer. “The man of the hour, Private Finn Hudson!” he shouts, “A braver man than me, that’s for sure!”

There are cheers, and everyone drinks. Quinn’s eyes dart around, suddenly realizing how distracted she had gotten. She’s sees Tina leaning into Mike and laughing, Sugar pouring some beer down Artie’s throat, she even sees a few people she hadn’t realized were there; Lauren Zizes is leaning against the wall with her arms folded and her trademark smirk directed at Puck, Karofsky stands with his hands in his pockets just beside a crowd of football players, and Quinn doesn’t miss the fact that his eyes are trained on Kurt instead of on Puck and Finn, and even Becky is there, holding a deck of cards in her small hands and eyeing Puck in a predatory way that makes Quinn almost worried for him. She glances around more. Brittany and Santana are close behind her; Brittany’s head is tilted in that disapproving way she mastered early on as a Cheerio as she regards the boys, and Santana wears a self-satisfied smirk, her arm around Brittany. Mercedes is just past them, leaning slightly into Sam, who is watching Mercedes’s ex-boyfriend instead of the boys. And there is Rachel, just next to Mercedes. Quinn makes a beeline for her and stands next to her. Rachel gives her a slight smile and leans into her, and just like before, Quinn’s arm wraps around her automatically. Mercedes sees her approach and gives her a genuine, if slightly inebriated, smile, before jerking her head toward Puck and Finn and muttering, “How did these two idiots ever graduate?”

Quinn fights a laugh and says, “I hear it was by the skin of their teeth.”

“Be nice,” Rachel chastises lightly, wrapping her own arm around Quinn to squeeze her to emphasize her point, and Mercedes smirks at Quinn and they both roll their eyes and giggle.

Puck holds up his cup again and the cheers die down, “Now’s the time to admit that this is kinda a party for me, too. Me and Finn are gonna head out to California for a road trip before he goes off to boot camp. So maybe I’ll see you guys later this summer, but maybe not. Either way, stay hot, McKinley girls!” Rachel can’t help but laugh at this, and gazes fondly at Puck. She did always have a soft spot for her fellow Jew.

Everyone cheers again, and Puck and Finn are encased in a mass of men, all back-slapping and howling a mixture of laughter and, for the drunkest among them, tears at the prospect of their upcoming adventure. As Sam leaves Mercedes’s side, with a kiss to her temple, to go offer his own well-wishes, Mercedes turns back to Quinn and Rachel, “Alright, I know they say they’re best friends, but I really think they’re gonna kill each other before they get to Cali.”

“Puck says they’re rekindling their bromance,” Quinn responds, with obvious mockery in her voice. Rachel and Mercedes both laugh.

Her chuckles trailing off, Rachel offers, “While I admire their desire to reconnect as friends, I must admit Mercedes may have a valid concern. They’re both such sweet boys” (at this, Mercedes and Quinn trade half-amused, half-incredulous looks) “but they have a lot of growing up to do. I hope the hardships of their travels will bring them home mature men, worthy of the affections of good women.” She looks up at Quinn with a bright smile that makes Quinn’s heart somehow both sink to her stomach and rise to her throat simultaneously, then nestles her head on Quinn’s shoulder. Mercedes’s half-amused, half-incredulous look returns, but this time, Quinn can’t offer her own.

Puck has made his way out of the crowd of overly-excited teenage boys, which seems to be dispersing, and someone has turned the stereo back up. He grins at Rachel, and shoves his hands in his pockets, “Hey there, second hottest Jew in the building!”

Rachel snorts, “I think I’d like to contest the ‘second’ part,” she says as she regards Puck’s casual appearance—torn jeans and a thin wife beater, “Objectively, I think I qualify as hotter than you tonight.” Mercedes nods and “mm-hmm!”s her agreement at this, but Quinn stays quiet.

“Ouch! Burn, hot Jew,” Puck holds his hands up to his heart. His expression sobers. “Hudson’s waiting for you, out back. Will you go talk to him?”

Quinn sees the trepidation flash across Rachel’s face and finds her arm holding her tighter. Then Rachel takes a deep breath and composes herself. “Okay,” she says quietly, and her arm slips from around Quinn and Quinn is forced to release her. Puck pulls Rachel into a hug, and Quinn hears Rachel murmur, “Thank you, Noah,” into his shoulder, before she shoots a forced smile at Quinn and Mercedes and wanders off. Puck lifts a hand in a small wave and wanders off himself, but Quinn is watching Rachel make her way through the crowd.

“Well, here’s hoping they’re able to move on from all the crap they’ve put each other through,” Mercedes grumbles, and Quinn’s stare shifts to Mercedes. But before she can ask what that means, Mercedes is smiling a goodbye and meeting Sam halfway as he approaches her with a fresh drink.

Quinn finds herself wandering Puck’s house, completely distracted, after Rachel has gone outside. She’s fighting with herself to not watch Rachel and Finn in the backyard. Thankfully, part of her temptation is quashed when Puck’s sister Sarah’s room is locked—which she remembers is the general rule for Puck parties, no hooking up in Sarah’s room, and is hopefully locked as a precaution. His room is fair game, and his mother’s room is available for those brave enough to not get completely creeped out by it. Most people use the nooks and crannies in the basement that’s half storage and half what had been Puck’s Nana’s living quarters for the last years of her life when she hadn’t been able to live alone, still preserved out of misery (most people are squicked out enough to avoid the old woman’s bed, though), or the laundry room, as Brittany and Santana no doubt had done earlier in the evening.

She wants to try the door to Puck’s room to try to see out back, but forces herself not to. So she paces. She heads back to the living room and watches Artie perform along to a Cure song—it’s not karaoke, but Artie manages to make himself heard while still channeling Robert Smith—while Mike dances. She’s struck again by the power behind Artie’s vocals and remembers something Tina had said once—if Artie had been able-bodied, he’d definitely be the male lead. Quinn feels a flash of hurt and anger on his behalf, and sudden bitter, disgusted thoughts cross her mind as she remembers Finn’s flailing dancing and the way his voice (and face) would strain on either end of his limited range. She shakes her head, she doesn’t _want_ to hate Finn. She doesn’t hate him. He’s just frustrating, but then, he is a young male.

She approaches Brittany and Santana, who are laughing with Tina and Mercedes; those two have apparently had enough to drink that they are hanging on each other, much like they did at Rachel’s party. She glances over; Puck and Sam seem to be having a very serious, hushed conversation together, which is just weird. She sees Kurt watching them, too, and he meets her eye and quirks an eyebrow when he sees she’s noticed. She quirks one right back and shrugs. Damned if she knows what they’re talking about.

She turns back to the laughing girls and sees Brittany watching her. Brittany’s brow knits in concern, “Q, you look like Sophomore year,” she states. This time both Quinn’s eyebrows rise, and the other girls look at her.

“She means you look sad as fuck,” Santana supplies, “Um, right, B? Cause Q sure doesn’t look preggers to me.”

Brittany nods fervently, and Tina, a little too drunk to keep the smile off her face and out of her voice, says, “What’s eating you, Quinn?”

Quinn looks away from all of their concerned gazes and feels herself flushing. She’s never known how to deal with this kind of attention. “I dunno. Just not feeling well, I guess.”

Mercedes reaches over to feel her forehead and she closes her eyes and lets her, reflecting that Mercedes might be the only person she would allow this kind of attention from. She’d seen her at her very worst, after all, and had been part-caretaker, mostly-friend when Quinn had lived with her. “You’re a lil’ warm,” Mercedes assesses, though her glassy eyes make Quinn doubt any diagnosis she could give at that moment.

But she smiles her thanks, “I think I’m okay, Mercedes. Really. Thanks.”

Tina’s attention has returned to the impromptu performance, and she grabs Mercedes to point out Mike’s moves. She pats Quinn’s arm, “I hope you feel better,” she says as sincerely as she can with her level of intoxication, and drags Mercedes over to watch.

Following Tina’s trajectory, Brittany’s eyes light up and she kisses Santana swiftly and speeds over to join Mike. Santana watches her go with a smile and then turns to Quinn, “Seriously, Q, I don’t know what’s got you down, but if you want to leave, I’m good, I gots my fuck on already. I’m sure Britts wouldn’t have a problem. Berry, either, though she’ll probably like shove ibuprofen down your throat or something.”

Quinn swallows, “Yeah. I don’t know. I don’t want to ruin your guys’ time. I’ll go see if I can find Rachel, see how she’s doing.”

Santana barely seems to hear her, and a glance tells Quinn that it’s because Brittany has just stripped off her shirt. A whoop issues loudly from Santana, who then starts shouting proudly, “That’s my girl! Go, Britts! Fucking _hot_ , baby!”

Moving through the cluster of people watching the mini-Glee performance (Blaine has joined Artie to harmonize on the vocals, and they’re managing to drown out The Killers on stereo pretty well together) Quinn heads for the mudroom that leads to the back door. She peers out and her stomach sinks so hard she really does think she might get sick.

Rachel and Finn are hugging, but it does _not_ look like a friendly hug. He’s holding her so tightly that her feet don’t even seem to be touching the ground, and all she can see is Finn’s face, which wears such a _relieved_ smile…

Quinn feels like she’s choking, and at that moment, the entire house seems too small. She’s occasionally claustrophobic, but it’s been awhile since she had such an attack—since the Nationals trip to New York, probably, when she tried to cope by hiding in her, Santana and Brittany’s bathroom—which, not surprisingly, didn’t work well because it was small, but she hadn’t wanted anyone to see her break down. Of course, it hadn’t only been claustrophobia that had forced her to hide, but it often struck when she was already emotionally vulnerable. And before that, it was probably when she was living with Puck, trying to share his bedroom while she felt herself growing larger and larger and everything around her began to feel smaller and smaller—this was part of why she’d spent so many sleepless nights in the living room. Quinn again tries to cope by hiding, this time in the small half-bath near the back door. She clutches the sink, her hands shaking, and tries to breathe normally, closing her eyes and imagining open spaces, visualizing clean air entering her lungs. At least with the mirror the room doesn’t feel as small as it really is when she experimentally opens her eyes a few times. Through the door, she can hear what sounds like the entire Glee club join in on the song, bringing in a ton of raucous harmony, and she stays concentrating on her breathing until she can hear Artie and Blaine finishing off the song with, “If you can hold on, if you can hold on…”

It’s counterproductive, being as proud as she is and trying to deal with this. But groups of people definitely make the situation worse and she would have to push through them to get outside unless she wanted to interrupt Rachel and Finn’s _moment_. She breathes through her nose as deeply as she can, and gradually begins to calm down, but the desire to leave is stronger than ever. At least now she thinks she can face the crowd.

She leaves the bathroom after several minutes and pushes back through to Santana, who is kissing a topless Brittany deeply and running her hands over the exposed skin. Feeling rude, Quinn approaches and stands there awkwardly without looking at them for a few moments until Santana detaches her mouth enough to mutter, “What, Fabgay?”

Brittany turns her head to shoot a warm, happy-drunk smile at Quinn then, not seeming at all upset at being interrupted. “Oh, sorry, were you trying to watch our lady kisses? I know we’re really hot,” and starts to lean back in.

“I just wanted to let you guys know that I couldn’t find Rachel, but I need some air. I’m going to head out front. If you find Rachel and you guys are ready to leave, come find me outside.” Quinn says tonelessly.

Santana rolls her eyes, “Whatever, Q, next time you want to watch us for pointers, all you have to do is ask.”

When Quinn sighs in frustration, Brittany says, “We’ll look for Rachel, Quinn. Don’t worry. I’m sorry you feel so Sophomore. We’ll leave soon, I promise.”

Nodding, even though they can’t see her with their lips re-adhered, Quinn heads outside. She does feel better as soon as the balmy summer air hits her face and her lungs. She thinks back to what Mercedes had said. Rachel had been talking to Mercedes a lot that night. Maybe she’d told Mercedes she was hoping to win Finn back? But Quinn had thought it might mean that maybe Rachel and Finn would finally move on from each other. But she hadn’t been sure, and the fear that had been gnawing at her told her it probably meant something else. And now here was proof, the two ex-fiancés hugging, and Finn wearing that relieved, overjoyed expression…

In the twenty minutes it takes for Santana, Brittany and Rachel to leave the party, Quinn has had to find something else to do aside from pacing Puck’s front yard. She’s been bored enough to automatically start weeding the front flower bed, something she had done a lot as a child when her parents kept care of the garden themselves, before they began hiring a gardener and landscaper. She’s pulling weeds out from around the Puckerman mailbox when the door opens, and Rachel hurries to her, seeming to have sobered a bit out of concern, “Quinn, I apologize profusely. They only just found me. They said you weren’t feeling well, and I’m so sorry you had to wait for me!”

Straightening, Quinn just shakes her head and mutters, “It’s not your fault,” refusing to meet Rachel’s eyes. She brushes the dirt off her hands and registers that Rachel is reaching out to brush her hair out of her eyes, so she pretends not to see and turns around to unlock the car. The drive back is mostly silent. Santana and Brittany snuggle contently, though she catches both their concerned gazes in her rearview mirror occasionally, and Rachel’s eyes burn into her from the passenger’s seat. It makes her feel claustrophobic again, so she drops them off without saying much other than, “I’m fine, have a good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Purity Ring, “Ungirthed” and Janis Joplin with Big Brother and the Holding Company, “Turtle Blues.” Other song mentioned is The Killers, “All These Things That I’ve Done.”


	4. We never lost control

_We never lost control_

 

The next morning, after a restless sleep, Quinn wakes early and is full of anxious energy. She reflects that Cheerios and physical therapy have possibly conditioned her to require more exercise than she’s been getting lately, and decides to go for a run.

It’s the first time she’s gone for a run since she’s been back on her feet, so she leaves a note for her mother with her prospective route and how long she thinks she’ll be out, so that if she hurts herself somewhere along the way, her mother may have time to come find her before leaving for work. She pulls on a pair of black workout shorts, probably part of her old gym uniform the few times she wasn’t exempt from gym because of Cheerios, or being pregnant, or being wheelchair-bound, and a red tank top, pulls back her hair in as high a ponytail as she can and laces up her running shoes—her sixth pair since starting high school; Cheerios practice was rough on running shoes, after all.

She stretches a bit before setting out, which feels odd, because Coach Sylvester hadn’t believed in stretching, at least not before running; stretching was only appropriate before attempting splits, and even then, she firmly believed they shouldn’t be necessary. But physical therapy had utilized stretches to help her muscles regain control. She knows exercise scientists and athletes are divided over the issues, but she figures light stretching can only help. The first block or so she takes at a brisk walk to try to continue her warm up. Then, she lopes into a run.

It’s reassuring, the way her legs seem to know exactly what to do, even though she knows they’ve atrophied some since she’s been in a wheelchair. There’s some light stinging in her ankles the first few times her feet hit concrete, and she tells herself she should consider buying an elastic resistance band to strengthen them again, but the stinging subsides quickly, and she’s established a steady pace. She breathes in through her nose, deeply, for as long as possible—almost a block—before it’s not enough and she needs to switch to her mouth. She makes sure she’s exhaling as her left foot hits the ground even though it’s basically automatic now; she’d learned from experience quite awhile ago that she’ll get a cramp within thirty seconds if she breathes the other way (Googling the problem had told her it’s because of something like her liver bouncing in the vacuum of her chest cavity or something equally disturbing). She makes sure to breathe in so deeply that she can feel her diaphragm drop, so her lungs can expand fully, remembering when practicing their “I Feel Pretty/Unpretty” mashup how Rachel had tried to teach her how to feel her diaphragm and how to use it to help with breath control. She hadn’t been very good at it, always forgetting to pay attention to it when it came time to actually sing, but recognizing the feel of it had turned out to help her with running. Especially since, even after learning that breathing with her stomach would help her get more air, she isn’t able to make herself do it; Lucy’s habit of sucking in her stomach as much as possible was impossible to break.

It’s been awhile since she’s gone on a run through the neighborhood. She used to go almost every day in the summers to finish losing her Lucy weight, stay in shape for Cheerios or to lose her baby weight, except for last summer, when she’d spent time smoking and hanging out with the Skanks instead (and with that 40-year-old guy that she hadn’t _really_ been involved with, but let everyone think so in hopes that it would provoke a fight with her mother; her mother had not had any idea how to handle Quinn in Skank mode and had reverted to blinders-on, smile-forced, inattentive, Russell Fabray’s wife mode). Still, Quinn remembers a route that’s only about two miles long and figures it’s a good distance to start.

It feels almost like it’s uphill the whole way. Lima is a bit hilly in parts, and the route she takes, the downhill parts are so gradual she doesn’t notice them, but notices the steeper uphills. They don’t get very steep until the very last quarter of her run, where two fairly steep inclines in a row occur. So for now, Quinn just concentrates on her stride and her breathing, trying to make her inhalations and exhalations take about a full two seconds each, or what she thinks a full two seconds might be; the rhythm of her feet are a distracting metronome that don’t match any kind of conventional time frame.

After a block or so, she has to slow down to walk briskly for a bit, not because she’s out of breath, but because her legs are starting to feel weak. She walks for about fifteen seconds before the image of Rachel and Finn invades her brain, and her legs pump off the ground automatically, and stride and breaths take over her brain again.

But soon, even those things become so automatic that she can’t focus on them, and _God_ , she’s back to worrying again. Her stride increases without her knowledge, and her breathing picks up, though she’s still exhaling as her left foot comes down. She doesn’t _want_ to deal with the idea of Rachel and Finn. She’d been lying _desperately_ the time in the bathroom just before graduation when she’d told Rachel that she and Finn were meant to be. She was just trying so damn hard to be supportive, swallowing down her desperate anxiety and pain just so Rachel could have someone to rely on—because God knew the girl could barely rely on the man she was about to marry. She had hoped that by saying this, that she could convince herself that it was true, and could just _accept_ that Rachel had chosen Finn, someone Quinn _never_ thought was good enough for Rachel. But then, once she had finally started to convince herself to let things be and just move on, Finn had approached the rest of the Glee club with his plan to break off the engagement to send Rachel on her way. And, though Quinn had never wanted anything else than for Rachel to be sent on her way to her destiny, the broken engagement had rekindled that tiny torch inside her, the one that wanted Rachel to…

She couldn’t even. Rachel was special, she always knew that. There had always been something about her that drew Quinn’s attention. And now Quinn just wanted to be Rachel’s best friend, and it felt like they were getting there. Shouldn’t that be enough? Best friends were more important than boyfriends or husbands, right?

She realizes she’s nearing the last quarter of her run, and forces herself to slow to a brisk walk, realizing her legs are starting to feel a bit like jelly, and she needs to rest a bit before attempting the double hill. These inclines had always given her problems; after all, most of her running occurred on the track at school, which, of course, was flat as could be.

She focuses on the hills and breathes deeply, forcing all the air out of her lungs before taking a new breath, and then reverts to her steady pace just before the first incline. She can’t even think about anything else as she begins to climb the first hill. The burn of her legs and glutes is about all that registers, and she just continues to push with the determination and self-discipline Lucy had unlocked at age fourteen. She can feel her legs wanting to give out, and fights to dispel the thoughts that plague her, that this was a bad idea, that her body wasn’t ready, that she was too weak, that she was going to re-injure herself, that she’d never be an athlete again. The sidewalk levels out for a few yards and she keeps going, trying to increase her momentum before the second hill. And this time, it’s strangely easier. Her legs still feel weak and wobbly, but the willpower is back, and she pushes up the hill, only allowing herself to slow down to her brisk walk when she gets to the top, and continues, pretending that her knees don’t want to buckle.

Soon, she’s on the home stretch, and puts on her last burst of strength to get home. She knows she’s done well for her first run in such a long time; she used to be able to do this, and longer routes, without stopping to walk, of course, but she doesn’t expect perfection. That’s one way she knows how much she has changed since Freshman and Sophomore year. Back then, she didn’t expect anything from her new self _but_ perfection, which…well, obviously hadn’t led to the best life choices and to high levels of stress. It took her falling, hard, several times before it sunk in that she would _never_ be perfect, and for a brief few weeks Senior year, before Rachel’s engagement and her accident, she had finally started to feel okay with herself. Of course, she was born and bred a stubborn, proud Fabray, and would always strive to be as close to perfect as she could, but at least she was no longer _torturing_ herself about it.

On the last block, she slows to that brisk walk again to try to cool down. She’s always been bad at the cooldown part. Coach Sylvester practices had no real cooldown; it was just, practice is over, hit the showers, and most girls hadn’t even caught their breath until they were under the water. But she wants to try hard to do things right, feeling as blessed as she does to even be _able_ to run right now. Even the stiff soreness of her hips and the twinge in her lower back can’t take away from her joy.

A small, proud smile graces her features as she enters the house, momentarily distracted from her worry by the elation of a successful run. She enters the kitchen to see the same smile on her mother’s face as she regards Quinn over her morning cup of Earl Grey. “You went running, Quinnie?” she asks, unnecessarily, but Quinn welcomes the opportunity.

“I did. It actually went really well. Obviously I’m not as good as I used to be, but I did my old two mile route and only had to slow down a few times.”

“I’m so proud of you,” her mother says, and even though it is such a parental cliché, it comes out completely genuinely, and Quinn feels a wave of tingling warmth that flows from her scalp down her body. It was so rare that she had heard such praise from her parents; Lucy had more frequently earned tight smiles and brief congratulations for her good grades, and the last time Quinn remembers hearing it—or something similar—and feeling as though it were genuine was from her father that horrible night, just before Finn decided to tell her parents about the pregnancy, through _song_ no less, and she had felt sick to her stomach knowing she had let them down so completely.

Things with her mother would probably never be great. Her mother still drank almost every day, though the quantity had lessened considerably; the last time she’d gotten truly _drunk_ was back in Quinn’s Skank days, when she hadn’t known how to cope. Not even Quinn’s accident had driven her to drink more, something that surprised Quinn when she realized how well her mother was holding together.

But her mother also worked hard; even though her divorce with Russell had left her with not only the house, but a decent share of money, there were still ongoing legal battles about finances that Quinn didn’t want to hear about. However, it did mean that they didn’t see each other as much as they did when Quinn was younger. To be fair, her mother was trying a lot harder to make the best of the time they did have together. Their conversations had been a lot less stilted and awkward. And Quinn’s accident had forced them to bond in an entirely new way; Quinn was actually dependent on her mother in a way that she couldn’t refuse, and her mother was actually present to assist her in a way that she’d never quite been before (it hadn’t been entirely smooth; Quinn would try to push her mother’s help away, but she would persist, offering smiles and help and words of encouragement that felt real, until Quinn gave in and accepted the help she needed). So things were probably at their peak in terms of their mother/daughter relationship, and Quinn liked being able to tell her mother little things. Even if she still wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to talk about big things; old habits died hard in her family, and Judy Fabray had fit in well with the Fabray clan since she had met Russell.

The warmth continues as Quinn sees her mother has brewed coffee for her, and she’s able to dispel her troubled thoughts through her breakfast with her mother, with their small talk, and Judy wishing her a good day as she leaves for work for her monthly Saturday shift.

It’s only once she has the house to herself that she can no longer deal with her thoughts alone.

 

_The cold-hearted boy I used to be_

 

She’s kept busy, distracting herself with a shower, with picking out an outfit, with her copy of _In Cold Blood_ , waiting until an hour that feels appropriate to text Santana and Brittany or even Mercedes to ask what they’re doing that day. She knows she needs to wait longer than normal in case any of them are hung over.

So when her phone sings around 9:30, she’s a little surprised. Her stomach dips when she sees it’s Rachel.

 

 **Rach: Hello, Quinn. I hope I’m not**  
**waking you, but this seemed a reasonable**  
**hour. I also hope you’re feeling better**  
**today. I am trying to organize a few days’**  
**long trip up to New York so Santana and**  
**I can hopefully sign a lease, probably**  
**from Wednesday until Friday. Brittany**  
**might accompany us, but it looks like she**  
**probably cannot. Would you like to**  
**accompany us?**

Quinn gnaws at her lip. Her first impulse is obvious—of course she wants to go to New York with them. Even if it’s strictly business, she wants to see where Rachel and Santana live. She wants to be able to picture them going about their daily business. She wants to know this, badly.

But, as if she’s the Pharaoh of Exodus himself, Quinn feels like her heart has hardened against her will, like the HBIC has taken over. She knows the real reason Rachel has asked—she’s still a little bit wary of Santana. That’s been under the surface of their interactions, still. And for whatever absolutely _insane_ reason, Rachel is more comfortable around Quinn, despite all the _shit_ she put her through. But the HBIC says, _they need to learn to work with each other eventually, you will_ not _go be mediator just for Rachel. She needs a knight in shining armor, she can just fucking ask Finn_.

It’s the reminder of Finn that finally settles it, and the HBIC composes the reply.

 

**Q: Wish I could, but I made plans with  
my mom. Have fun with San!**

 

There. Succinct. Ignores Rachel’s insecurity about the time of day and her concern about Quinn’s health. A shitty excuse that she knows Rachel will see right through (as if she’d choose to spend time with her _mother_ rather than go to New York!), the jab about Santana when Rachel’s nervousness is absolutely obvious. Yeah.

She feels the pressure of tears behind her eyes as soon as the message has sent and shuts off her phone and tosses it aside so she won’t be tempted to check it if she gets a response—though she’s sure she won’t, Rachel will feel the brush-off like a slushie to the face.

She chokes on the HBIC’s bile.

 

_I’m a grown-up for real_

 

Somehow, she makes it home from New York with Rachel Berry without killing her.

Brittany isn’t able to come with them. Which, well. She’ll never admit it, but the prospect of traveling alone with Rachel is kind of fucking terrifying. They fly, and it isn’t until halfway through their fucking absurdly early flight, when Santana wakes up enough to notice that they are both doing the exact same fucking thing (listening to their iPods, not speaking, and jiggling their legs in anxiety) that she realizes Rachel is freaking out, too. She takes comfort in the fact that it seems like Rachel is feeling the same anxiety she is. When their eyes finally meet as the plane touches down, the mutual vulnerability must be obvious, for they share relieved grins.

Rachel had made a detailed itinerary that she then shares with Santana, and they race to make their first meeting with a potential landlord. Rachel had tried to find as many places as possible that worked through landlords, to avoid unnecessary realtor fees on their down payment. It turns out Santana is thankful for Rachel’s foresight and attention to detail. By Thursday morning, they narrow down their choices to the top three, and discover they agree on their first choice. It’s a two-bedroom, not extremely close to Rachel’s campus, but close to a subway station that could make her trip to school fairly quick. It has coin-operated laundry in the basement. One bedroom is bigger than the other, and the living room is actually a decent size. And, since it is part of a complex without separate meters, the landlord pays for the heat. These perks, combined with the relatively low price, make them decide on it, and they manage to contact the landlord and get their paperwork settled that afternoon. They sign over the checks from their parents for the down payment, and he takes their information and their parents’ to run a credit check, and to send co-signer paperwork to their parents, and tells them as long as everything checks out, it is theirs.

While Rachel begins to panic about the completely impossible scenario that their parents’ credit checks will fall through and begins to make a plan b, by calling their second choice and announcing interest, Santana just rolls her eyes and tells Rachel she is going to go fill out some applications for jobs nearby. Because even if her mother has given her money, she knows logically she needs to work if she’s going to live in this city. She wants to save as much of the money as she can, for when she _really_ figures out what the hell she wants to do.

It turns out there isn’t much available for a girl just out of high school who has never actually held a job before. She ends up applying at several retail and restaurant jobs, though some seem confused why she is applying when she won’t be there until August 15th, almost two months away.

Still, she gets a call from one of those retail giants late that afternoon, a store that’s located a few miles from the apartment. They seem really excited about her for some reason, which is just unsettling, because the application was a goddamn cakewalk—there had been a random math section, absurdly easy for someone who has just finished high school Trig, and an ethics section where, come on, _obviously_ they wanted you to rat on your coworkers and not steal shit. They want her to come in and interview and she tells them she’s only in town until tomorrow afternoon, so they scramble to set her up an interview first thing in the morning. Bemused, Santana accepts.

She meets back up with Rachel at their hotel and as they carry take-out back to the room, she tells her she has an interview, which just seems to make Rachel’s day. Rachel starts fussing about Santana’s clothes, which, Santana really never thought there would come a day when Rachel freaking Berry would be trying to help her plan an outfit, but the truth is, Santana packed clothes that make her look presentable in the sense that she looks like a trustworthy tenant or employee for prospective landlords or whichever employee she might hand in a job application to, but nothing really _job interview_ worthy. She figured she’d end up doing most of that by phone.

So after an hour long argument, fifteen separate promises from Rachel that she will never, ever tell anyone about this or take any photos, Santana agrees to borrow one of Rachel’s skirts for her interview, pairing it with a blue short-sleeved button down shirt.

She discovers when she gets to her interview the next morning why they are so excited for her. Not only is back to school a very busy time of year for the retail giant, but they lose a lot of their summer workers—students—at around the time Santana wants to start. But even moreso, it’s because Santana marked her entire prospective schedule as “available.” And as soon as it starts to dawn on her that this interview is really more of a job offer, when the two employees who conducted the interview leave and the head of HR comes in, the first question she’s asked is, “Can you work overnight?”

Her mouth flops uselessly for a few moments before she instinctively says yes. It is _such_ a relief to know there is a job waiting for her, and that she pretty much has it in the bag, that it feels like a mistake to say no. Immediately she regrets her choice. Overnight, what the hell? When would she have time for anything?

They are thrilled. Santana continues to force smiles and be agreeable, which freaking hurts her face, but she just pretends the mild-looking middle-aged woman with the horrible fake tan laying out her prospective schedule is Sue Sylvester, and becoming a fucking simpering, agreeable _puppet_ becomes so much easier. Her pride feels like a wad of gum stuck halfway down her esophagus.

She exits the building, dazed, to find Rachel waiting for her with a smile, a cup of coffee and a scone. She gratefully accepts, shaking her head in slight awe at Rachel’s perfect idea of a post-interview-stress pick-me-up. “So I work there, overnights, 10pm-6:30am, four or five nights a week.”

Rachel stares at her for a good five seconds before barely audibly exhaling, “Overnight?”

Santana shakes her head and shrugs helplessly, “It was what was available. They at least pay more than minimum wage, and I get a shift differential for the overnight work. And it’s not like I have to stay there. I’m just glad to have a job when I get up here.”

Rachel nods, seeming lost in thought, and they head to what is soon to be their new neighborhood and explore the nearest grocery stores, coffee shops, and restaurants, which, it turns out there aren’t _that_ many because their area is so residential, but it’s not _awful_ , she guesses. At around noon, they head to the airport.

So even though they survived their trip together, Santana is exhausted that evening when she gets back to her parents’ house, and all she really wants to do is curl up in bed with Brittany and a shared bowl of ice cream and watch movies. So when her doorbell rings, she can’t help but smile that one special Brittany smile that, if she’d ever seen it on her own face, she’d make sure no one ever saw again. Brittany is surprising her? She hasn’t even had a chance to text her yet!

Therefore, it is somewhat understandable that when she opens her door and sights Rachel Berry, she scowls, leans against the doorframe and greets, “What the hell, Berry?”

Rachel is completely unfazed, which just frustrates Santana further. “Hello, Santana. Are your parents home?”

Santana’s eyebrows shoot from one extreme to the other as they reach for her hairline. “What?”

“Your mother. May I speak with her? Or perhaps your father?”

Santana then notices the fervor in Rachel’s eyes and steps aside in alarm, “Mom!” she shouts, far louder than she means to, and Maribel Lopez moves gracefully to the front door, “Who is it, ‘Ana?”

“Hello, Mrs. Lopez, I’m Rachel Berry. I don’t believe we’ve officially met.”

Santana’s mother smiles and accepts Rachel’s hand, “No, but I know who you are, of course. I’m so glad you’ll be in New York with my daughter. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Rachel responds, “May I please speak with you about something? I have prepared a visual aid on the subject that I would like you to see.” It’s then that Santana fully registers that Rachel is carrying a messenger bag.

“Of course,” says Maribel, her eyebrows lifting in the same way Santana’s had. As Rachel strides into the living room purposefully, Santana and her mother share bewildered glances, and watch as Rachel extracts a laptop and opens it up to reveal a Powerpoint presentation entitled, “The Problem of Transportation in New York City.”

“Berry,” Santana utters in an exhausted voice, “Is this what you were working on that whole time on the plane?”

“Yes, now please give me your full attention, this is very important.”

As Rachel begins to entreat Santana’s mother to…let Santana have a car in New York City?...Santana stares. She doesn’t even realize when her mouth drops open as she watches Rachel. Rachel is laying out her reasons for thinking this is a good idea: Santana is working overnight, and the subway just isn’t safe that late, nor is the five-minute walk from the subway to the apartment; their apartment has free street parking in front of it, Santana’s job has a parking lot so parking there would be safe and easy; Rachel researched bus routes for that time of night and Santana would waste almost an hour on the bus trying to get there, and again, the walks between buses and apartment/workplace would be unsafe; it’s about three miles away, just a bit too far to be walking at that time of night; the roads Santana would be driving on were really not that busy in the late evening and traffic that early in the morning would be heading the other way. Rachel knows Santana already has a car, and since, due to her age, it’s likely to be in her parents’ name, they could keep it registered and insured in Ohio, which would mean Santana could avoid the cost of New York City insurance. Rachel just strongly believes that it would be beneficial for Santana to have a car in the city, and her fathers agree with her and worry for Santana’s safety, and would be happy to help pay for the upkeep of the car, just because having it there in case of emergencies would ease their minds.

Santana glances at her mother as Rachel finishes her spiel, and is shocked to see her mother nodding thoughtfully. Mrs. Lopez turns to Santana and asks, “Do you want your car in New York? I hadn’t considered it, honestly, but I also did not know you were working nights. I think Rachel has made some good points.”

“I…guess so?” For the second time that day, Santana is reeling, and finds agreeing to be the easiest solution.

Her mother nods. “I think this is a good thing. Thank you, Rachel, for bringing the issues to my attention.”

Rachel nods, her face still set in the expression of determination, her eyes still fervent. “Santana, I must apologize for not telling you about this ahead of time; I know you are a very brave, independent woman, and I didn’t want you to feel belittled by my worry for you, but as a woman of color, I worry that you could be a target. Statistically, in our future neighborhood, women of color are more likely to be victims of violent crime.”

Santana doesn’t know what to say to _that_ and whether it’s actually offensive or not, “Thanks, Berry. I think.” Now she just wants Brittany, ice cream, movies, and a whiskey and Coke. What the fuck just happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from David Bowie’s “The Man Who Sold the World” (the Nirvana cover is also quite well known and good), The Killers’s “All These Things That I’ve Done,” and Jay-Z’s “Dirt Off Your Shoulder”.


	5. The time you ran was too insane

_The time you ran was too insane_

 

Rachel awakens later than usual the next day, but elated, refreshed from her victorious trip to New York in which they secured an apartment, acquired Santana a job, and in which she convinced Santana’s mother that Santana needed her car. That part was only _slightly_ selfish; she had noticed that the closest actual grocery store was about a mile away, and wasn’t particularly looking forward to hauling home soymilk or cost-effective 24-packs of toilet paper that far. But it really had been mostly about Santana’s safety; much as she loves New York City already, she knows crime is a real issue.

As she works out, she finds herself brooding about Quinn. She wishes she knew why she felt so _slighted_ by the fact that Quinn clearly hadn’t wanted to come to New York with her and Santana. That, combined with the fact that Quinn hadn’t texted her at all while she was there (though, to be fair, she hadn’t texted Quinn either), increases her worry. She feels like she must’ve done something. Maybe Quinn was a lot more uncomfortable with her drunken affection than she’d let on? She almost hopes—though, she never has and never will _really_ wish Quinn ill—that it’s because Quinn was still feeling unwell, because _that_ she would be able to deal with.

After her shower and breakfast, she opens Facebook and notices several new notifications. Each one causes her smile to widen and her body to relax a little more. She’d posted pictures of her and Santana’s new apartment before bed the previous night, and now she sees “Quinn Fabray likes this” on several, and such comments as, “This better be Rachel’s room. The student needs the bigger room, Santana!” and “This is so cute!’ and “It’s a good thing neither of you can cook, you can’t even fit in here.”

So it’s this sort of tacit encouragement that builds her confidence enough to text Quinn.

 

**Rachel Berry: Hello Quinn! I am back**  
 **from New York after a successful trip!**  
 **Would you like to socialize sometime in**  
 **the next few days?**

Not thirty seconds later, she gets a response.

 

**Quinn Fabray: Absolutely. Santana seems**  
 **to be thinking along the same lines; I**  
 **actually just got a text from her just**  
 **before yours. How are you guys so in sync**  
 **already? Want to come by here at around**  
 **one?**

**Rachel Berry: I would love to! See you**  
 **then! Shall I bring anything?**

**Quinn Fabray: Just you. :) Oh and I**  
 **guess a swimsuit.**

The smiley face produces an unconscious, mirrored response on Rachel’s own face. She’s never seen Quinn use an emoticon before.

 

**Rachel Berry: Great! See you soon!**

 

At one o’clock sharp, Rachel arrives at Quinn’s bearing a pitcher of half-lemonade half-iced tea. Quinn raises an eyebrow at the pitcher and says, “I told you not to bring anything.”

“It’s impolite to show up to a social gathering empty-handed,” Rachel responds primly.

 Quinn laughs softly as she takes the pitcher, “Tell that to Santana; she walks in here and goes straight to the pantry for snacks.”

Laughing, she follows Quinn into the kitchen, where Quinn’s mother is sorting through some mail on the counter. Mrs. Fabray glances up and smiles, and Rachel finds herself suddenly unable to tap into that role in her head of the “polite, well-adjusted friend” that had been such a hit with Finn and Kurt’s parents and Mercedes’s parents. She’s _nervous_. Maybe it’s the tilt of Judy Fabray’s eyebrows, so like Quinn’s, or the hint of fierce parental protectiveness in the woman’s gaze (which was…what was that?), or just the fact that this woman used to be married to _Russell freaking Fabray_ , who was, in Rachel’s opinion, purely evil. She tucks her hands behind her back in forced casualness and opts for a subdued smiled, rather than the starpower one she’s not sure she can muster. “Hello, Mrs. Fabray. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I’m Rachel Berry.”

Quinn’s mother’s smile stays steady, and her eyes do seem to soften, “Of course you are. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

To Rachel, it seems like there’s more Quinn’s mother wants to say, and their eye contact as they shake hands lightly is almost as intense as her eye contact with Quinn tends to be, but whatever it is passes when Quinn speaks, “Oh, yeah, sorry Rachel, Mom. I forgot you haven’t actually met.”

“We have now,” Mrs. Fabray responds, smiling at her daughter.

Quinn returns the smile lightly and glances at her watch. “We can head upstairs awhile. Santana and Brittany always run on ga—Santana standard time, they’ll probably be another half an hour.”

They head upstairs to Quinn’s bedroom, which Rachel realizes she’s never seen before, but her brain can’t deal with the new stimuli of Quinn’s room before it first deals with, “Did I just hear you almost make a gay standard time joke?”

Quinn blushes, which makes Rachel want to giggle; she’s never seen _that_ before. “Yeah, you caught me,” Quinn admits.

“I didn’t think you’d know about that phenomenon,” Rachel states, a hint of a question in the phrase.

“Of course I do, when I started to realize that Santana and Brittany were…not entirely straight, I did a lot of looking on the internet, trying to sort out my feelings on the matter. Luckily, my search brought me to lots of positive sites, and though I absorbed rather a lot of gay stereotypes, they were presented as tongue-in-cheek.” An uncertain expression crosses her face, and she regards Rachel seriously with that _intense_ eye contact again, “And before you ask, I cut myself off because I didn’t want to explain the joke to my mom—especially since gay standard time for those two is more like, we got held up having sex, sorry we’re late. But my mother’s not…a homophobe. She’s not my father. She’s not entirely comfortable with it, but she has always loved Brittany, and Santana somehow managed to grow on her, God knows how. She had a period of sorting out her feelings, too. So she’s not like…itching to burn your fathers at the stake or anything.”

Rachel doesn’t expect to feel so relieved, because honestly, Judy Fabray interacting with he fathers in _not_ something she’s thought about before, but she is, and lets herself admire Quinn’s room. It’s strangely impersonal. There are few posters on the wall: a McKinley pennant, a poster of a Janis Joplin album cover, a black and white poster of Diana Ross  & The Supremes, a tiny crucifix above her vanity. Her furniture is heavy wood that imitates the appearance of antique furniture. Around her vanity are pictures, mostly of the Glee club and some of the Cheerios. There’s one of Beth. There’s a picture framed on her dresser of, God, Rachel has no idea when this was, but it’s clearly a candid and has her in the center standing between Finn and Quinn, with Santana on Quinn’s other side, in the hallway at school. They appear to be having a serious conversation. It’s got to be Sophomore year, judging by her hair and loud skirt, but Quinn is in her Cheerios uniform, and therefore obviously not visibly pregnant, so it has to be _early_ Sophomore year, Finn and Quinn dating early, and she can’t imagine what they could be talking about that isn’t involving bloodshed. She also can’t imagine why it’s important enough to be on Quinn’s dresser either—a reminder of what things were like before Quinn’s life derailed completely, perhaps?

She sits down next to Quinn on the bed, noting Quinn’s erect posture, and says, “Janis Joplin, huh? I didn’t know you were a fan. I never heard you sing her.”

Quinn laughs openly, “Like I could do her justice? Santana, maybe. I just don’t have that smoky quality.” Rachel wants to object, because even if Janis Joplin really isn’t her style, her daddy likes her, and she’s now imagining Quinn singing “Me and Bobby McGee.” And even though she’s sure she told her fathers once that no one should ever cover Janis’s version of that song because the stripped-down acoustic version is so wonderfully emotive and damn near haunting, she’s positive that Quinn singing it would be _heavenly_. But Quinn continues, “And yeah. I like a lot of music, but, you know, it was mostly just 60’s and 70’s soul, blues and Motown for a long time. Glee helped me branch out some, but I never really gave Janis Joplin much thought until I started hanging out with the Skanks, who loved ‘chick rock,’” (Quinn accompanies this with finger quotes and a little eye roll) “but she’s like a blues singer in a rock band, and I loved it. Learning to appreciate female-led rock, modern and classic, was the only good thing to come out of my Skank phase.”

Rachel’s brave enough to ask, with a little smirk, “Other than your tattoo? What happened to that anyway?”

Which just makes Quinn blush and admit that her Christmas present had been multiple treatments to get it removed. “If it has to do with appearance, Mom would go into debt for it.” And the bitterness in her voice is subdued, and the smile she gives Rachel is genuine, and somehow, just like that, the trepidation that still lingers in Rachel from Quinn’s snub earlier in the week evaporates, and Quinn’s spine relaxes, and they chat, like best friends.

 

_I love you more cause you are the one who set me free_

 

True to Quinn’s prediction, Santana and Brittany show up around 1:30, and she and Rachel exchange a glance and a laugh as Santana goes immediately rooting around Quinn’s cabinet, extracting ginger snaps.

Santana doesn’t even ask what they’re laughing at, just rolls her eyes and says, “Come on, bitches. Outside.”

Once outside, Brittany and Santana unabashedly strip off their clothes down to their bathing suits and flop unceremoniously into lounge chairs. Quinn takes her time taking off her own yellow sundress, folding it carefully, and Rachel treats her own clothes with similar care. Quinn begins to slather herself with sunscreen, reminding Brittany to do the same. When Rachel offers to get her back for her, she accepts, and as Rachel’s hands smooth sunscreen over the skin of her lower back, slightly rougher from the tattoo removal treatment, though more-or-less visually normal as far as she can tell, she stares all the while at Santana straddling Brittany to cover her back with sunscreen. She remains standing, as does Rachel when Quinn returns the favor, but something about the parallels makes her abs clench.

For awhile, they sit and enjoy ginger snaps and ice tea-lemonade (Rachel feels her eyes bug when Brittany candidly shares that she and Santana have “post-sex munchies”); Quinn turns on some speakers connected to her iPod and puts it on random, but Santana bitches, “None of that whiny Joni Mitchell shit, Quinn.” (an offended squeak from both Quinn and Rachel at this) “Turn it to the Santana-approved playlist!”

Quinn rolls her eyes and huffs, but obeys, and the first thing to blast out of the speakers is a woman rapping, which makes Rachel raise her eyebrows. Quinn sighs, “Robyn is featured on this song, you’ll hear her in a minute, and what can I say, I like her. Nostalgic value, I suppose, from when she was big when we were in middle school. My sister listened to her all the time.” Quinn flicks her eyes to Santana and gives a conspiratorial smile, “As for Santana, she forced this on my iPod one time. She likes ‘select hip-hop,’ as she likes to say.”

“S’how we do it in Lima Heights Adjacent,” Santana drawls inattentively. Quinn smirks again, and Rachel listens as Quinn sings softly along with Robyn’s mournful chorus in the song. Quinn’s voice has always been understated, she thinks; the way Quinn sings this makes Rachel empathize with her involuntarily, because she’s singing about an impossible situation—Quinn Fabray doesn’t _pine_. She has no reason to because, Rachel thinks, she’s always had whomever she wanted.

Rachel subconsciously selectively forgets the times that she had Finn when Quinn had, apparently, still wanted him.

Most of the rest of the playlist is not as unexpected, because now that she thinks about it, Santana’s and Quinn’s typical musical tastes are related genres, just a few decades apart, so they appreciate a lot of the same sound. Though, the music is really in the background of their conversation. At some point during their idle chatting, Rachel glances over at the hot tub, “Do you guys use that ever? I’ve never really been in one, and imagine it would be nice to relax in on a summer night.”

The question produces a shudder in Quinn and a smirk on Santana’s face. Brittany gazes at Rachel almost…pityingly? Laughing, Santana says, “Hell no, Berry, none of us want to soak in Finnept spunk. You’re more than welcome to, though,” she leers.

Rachel looks confused for a moment more before expression changes to horrified, “Oh. Oh, God! That’s THE hot tub. Oh my goodness, Quinn, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up terrible memories of so-called ‘baby daddy drama.’”

Santana cackles, and Quinn buries her face in her hand, “Yeah. That’s the one. Now can we please drop the subject? I’ve lost my appetite.”

Brittany directs her comment to Rachel, “We know that it’s no longer in there, but it grosses San and Q out. I just think it was rude of him to do it in there.”

“He couldn’t help it,” Santana smirks, “Half a minute Hudson didn’t exactly have self control. Honestly, I’m surprised when he and I—”

Quinn reaches over and smacks Santana on the shoulder, Santana shuts up and glances away to hide her shame, while Quinn shoots Rachel an apologetic look. “Sorry. This got awkward fast.”

Rachel shakes her head, “Not awkward. I promise. I believe this is standard for girl friends to compare notes on shared exes and their prowess or lack thereof.”

Santana glances over with a grin, “Okay, girl friends? Consider a new phrase to describe us. And lack thereof? Is that an admission of disappointment?”

“I plead the fifth,” Rachel states primly, and Santana cackles again. Quinn sees the slight apprehension in Rachel’s eyes and gives her a grateful smile for cutting the tension.

They float lazily in the pool, either in the water, listening to the hollow splashes underwater, watching their hair fan out around them, or on floating chairs, watching the bright orange patterns the sunlight makes as it beats down on their eyelids, dribbling water on their torsos and letting it dry in the sun, leaving patches of gooseflesh. After awhile, they order Chinese. While they sit at the poolside and eat, watching idly as the sun starts to sink low in the sky, Quinn’s phone sings Jim Croche at her. Rachel catches Quinn’s fond smile, and Quinn glances up, “It’s just Puck,” she explains, composing a very brief reply.

“Oh,” Rachel responds, then a few moments later, “How are they doing?”

Regarding her with clear surprise, Quinn says, “Finn hasn’t been keeping you updated?”

Rachel shakes her head, “No. Why would you think that?”

Clearly uncomfortable, Quinn shrugs, “I just figured, you know. You guys are meant to be.” (both Quinn and Rachel miss the incredulous look Santana shoots Quinn at this) “I figured, your engagement may be off, but you’d be trying at least the relationship again…”

Rachel smiles, a little wistfully, “Ah. I think perhaps, Quinn, that this is the one item you’ve been wrong about when you’ve given me advice.” She straightens, aware of the attention on her, and says, “Essentially, what I informed Finn was that…I do think he made the right choice when he let me go. But I do believe that if two people are meant to be, they can and will try again. I just don’t believe that there’s any point in trying _now_. Perhaps the military will be good for him, and perhaps he’ll grow up, and perhaps we’ll both want enough of the same things in life to make it work. But I don’t think it’s worth trying to make it work at this juncture, when it can’t. And, honestly, probably it never will. I think we’ll both continue to want too many different things in life.”

She knew what she was saying was true. She did believe in a sort of weak fate like that, had believed Finn when he’d told her in the car at the train station that the universe would bring them together if it were meant to be. She did believe that if circumstances changed (though they’d have to change a lot), she and Finn might be able to give things another shot. But most of her assumed they were done. She’d really only reminded him of their apparently mutual belief that if two people were meant to be, they’d find each other in the end because Finn had looked so hurt when she thanked him for letting her go—and thus gave the first indication that she was going to move on. But most of her is glad that he hasn’t been contacting her, not even with bland little updates about his travels. He’s always been able to break through her resolve; she sees this now, sees the way compromising with him so often became sacrificing for him. She worries that if he does, she won’t get a _chance_ to move on. Because, at this time, even ready to move on with her future and from Finn, she knows she still loves him.

The three former Cheerios are silent for a few moments, until Santana asks, “So you’re not like, waiting for him? You’re gonna try to move on and everything? Cause…I don’t know if I can handle living with you if you’re moping about your military boyfriend all the time…”

Emitting a brief chuckle, Rachel simply answers, “Yes. I will attempt to move on.” Then, deflecting but genuinely curious, Rachel asks Quinn, “Why is Noah keeping you updated? Are you…did you guys…?”

Quinn shakes her head emphatically. “Definitely not. He’s doing it because I asked him to. Like it or not, he and I are bonded for life, and I made him promise he’d always tell me where he was in the world. Any other detail he gives is extra credit.” She meets Rachel eyes, “I meant what I said about anchors. I’m headed to college single and free, my only attachments the friends that got me there.”

Brittany’s brow furrows at this, and she says, “What about your girlfriend? Are you still seeing her?”

Quinn blushes _hard_ , and asks somewhat sharply, “What are you talking about, Brittany?”

“Joe,” Brittany says simply, “Weren’t you seeing Joe? Did you break things off with her?”

After a few seconds of silence, in which everyone attempts to figure out how to discuss the dreadlocked elephant in the room, Santana finally says softly, “Britts, baby, Joe is a guy.”

Eyebrows ticking up, then furrowing down again, Brittany responds, “Okay, I know I think both boys and girls are hot, but it’s not fair to try to confuse me like that, San. Joe’s a really pretty _girl_. I mean, maybe she’s not your type, but that doesn’t mean I can’t think she’s pretty.”

Santana runs a hand through her hair in mild frustration, “Yeah, you’re right, B, he’s not my type, because he’s a guy. Quinn dates guys.”

Brittany nods, “But she’s a bicorn, like me. We’re both hot blondes. We’re clearly the same species.”

Quinn cuts in, rubbing her hands over her face, “I’m not bisexual, B. And I can confirm that Joe is, in fact, male.”

Arching an eyebrow and smirking, Santana asks, “Confirm?”

Quinn looks away, the flush back on her cheeks, “Yes, confirm. But it’s not at all what you think.”

“Oh, do enlighten me,” Santana grins, “Cause there are only so many ways to _confirm_ someone’s manhood, amiright?”

Grimacing, Quinn says, “He was helping me with physical therapy—”

“Yeah, hold up a sec,” Santana cuts in, “Why the fuck didn’t you ask me and Britt to help? You know we would’ve been glad to.”

Eyes falling to her lap, Quinn pauses for several seconds and then says, “It was hard enough _being_ in my condition, I couldn’t stand the thought of people I cared about seeing me so helpless—God, it was almost impossible to even accept help from my mom, I was vile to her. It’s stupid. But since he barely knew me, it somehow made it less embarrassing. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to slight you.”

“I guess I get it,” Santana mutters.

And Rachel feels an unexpected wash of relief, as something from what seems like _so long ago_ clicks into place. How none of them were allowed to visit Quinn in the hospital after the accident, how they kept being told that the family preferred to keep contact limited to family only. How even when Santana vociferously protested that they _were_ her family, and Mercedes shouted about how she had watched Quinn push a human being out of her body, still, they were not allowed to see Quinn. Rachel had figured it was some kind of crazy protective Fabray pride thing, that Judy was trying not to make the family seem vulnerable, but now it suddenly seems like maybe Judy was right, and maybe she knew _Quinn_ wouldn’t want to feel that vulnerable under the gaze of her friends.

Quinn is still speaking, however, so she barely thinks on it. “Anyway,” Quinn continues, “he was helping me with physical therapy, and when our bodies got close,” at this, her face changes, nose wrinkling and her upper lip curling up the faintest bit; Rachel thinks she’s looks repulsed, and is surprised to hear her say in a clipped voice ”He got…aroused. So yeah. He’s male.”

There is a brief silence, and then Santana grunts, “That’s…actually disgusting.”

“And inappropriate,” Rachel interjects, with a firm nod.

Brittany’s face is pinched in confusion, “So…she wasn’t wearing a strap-on or anything? Cause I mean, those don’t feel _super_ real, cause when—“

Alarmed, Santana cuts her off, “I think it’s pretty safe to say he wasn’t packing, baby. Q felt the real deal.”

Quinn smiles a little, her breath catching slightly as she cuts in, “And for the record, S, you and Rachel are right. It wasn’t okay. But…” she takes a breath to collect her thoughts, “But I’d been dealing with _so_ much. I mean, I don’t know if you guys know just how much someone in a wheelchair gets stared at. Like everyone, even strangers, were just like _scrutinizing_ my body, as if hoping they’d see the injury that meant I couldn’t walk as like a gaping wound or something. And I’ve been stared at before, obviously, especially as head cheerleader, but this was _different_. This was unnerved, and pitiful, and horrified, and disgusted. So when Joe looked at me like I was the head cheerleader again, it was…kind of a perverse confidence boost. It was just nice that someone saw me that way, for once. So…I guess I kind of led him on for awhile as a result, because it made me feel good, which made my recovery easier. I never felt anything for him, though he is a nice guy, and we didn’t even kiss. I just hung out with him and absorbed his obvious attraction. Like a psychic vampire,” Quinn gives a self-deprecating smile and huffs out a deep breath.

“I think those are actually aliens,” Brittany puts in helpfully, while Santana and Rachel stare at Quinn with matching sympathetic expressions, until Santana finally smirks and says, “Wow, Q. You’re more twisted than I ever would’ve given you credit for.”

Rolling her eyes, Quinn shoves Santana’s shoulder lightly and murmurs, “Thanks, bitch.” They share a genuine smile.

Rachel’s silent for some time as she recalls telling Quinn what she meant to her, that sometimes she still saw her as the head cheerleader. She remembers the smile Quinn had given her in response, and wonders briefly if what she told Quinn had felt at all like what Joe had told her. Remembers how when Quinn got back to school after her accident, Rachel was the first person she approached. Remembers, and wonders, _hopes_ , that she never made Quinn feel uncomfortable in her chair.

For her part, Quinn is also recalling Rachel’s words, telling her what Quinn meant to her. The words that meant so much more than Joe’s arousal that Quinn refused to take them without giving anything back. And so she had given Rachel back the only thing she could, which turned out to be the best thing she had—Rachel’s confidence.

 

_And if you complain once more_

 

Puck slams his truck door and walks back to Finn, who is sprawled across their heavy Mexican blanket on the drought-parched earth. He tosses Finn a beer and flops next to him. The two young men regard the evening sky in silence for some time. They had been on the road about a week, taking their time, getting used to driving long hours, traveling mostly west, but zig-zagging north and south the whole way to see different things. Which is why it had taken them so long to get to the eastern edge of the Rockies.

They had decided to at least get to the Rockies that day, and had watched them rise on the horizon, imperceptibly slow, for ten hours until finally, their massive, craggy forms were right in front of the boys. They’d stopped, even though there were several hours of daylight left, wanting to enjoy the sight, and found someplace nearby where they could hike a bit, before coming back their roadside campsite for dinner.

They also have only stayed in a hotel once so far due to costs—not that they are running out of funds yet, because they have Finn’s share of the honeymoon money, and Puck’s pool business savings, but they are trying to be frugal. They generally camp out in Puck’s truck (it had been one in the bed of the truck and one on the seats, but after a few nights, they both settled into the bed—the thick blankets spread out to cover the metal ridges actually make it more comfortable than the worn seats) or, if they think it might rain—which has seemed a possibility only once so far in this dry summer—they pitch his tent. The further west they get, the less conspicuous people camping just off the highway becomes, and they are usually able to find a truck stop or something where they can get showers or, at the very least, wash up pretty thoroughly in the sinks in the bathrooms—“whore baths,” Puck calls them. They’re getting good at choosing places to stop where they’re unlikely to be disturbed. They’ve taken a route through Wyoming, originally planning to just go through Colorado, but news of wildfires caused them to change course through Wyoming. They’re considering trying to see Yellowstone now, but this rest happens along a fairly deserted stretch of road off the highway.

Electing not to find a restaurant for dinner and go in for breakfast instead, they dine on Gatorade, beef jerky, chips and peanut butter sandwiches. They usually eat at a restaurant once a day, usually a truck stop or a fast food joint, and otherwise buy simple foods at convenience stores or grocery stores. Puck even has a load of firewood in the back, promising that if it got as cold in the desert as people said that they’d build a fire and he’d cook something over it. But for dessert tonight, they feel safely alone enough to each enjoy a beer.

Puck knows they should turn in soon; the problem with sleeping outside is that the sun wakes them up so early. The solstice has just passed, so some of the longest days of the year are upon them, which means they only have about a seven hour window of heavy darkness to sleep in. But they both kind of want to admire the stars over the Rockies; the sun setting behind them—vanishing so early—had been breathtaking already.

Watching Finn from the corner of his eye, Puck takes a sip. They are having a good time, but he doesn’t feel like they’re connecting the way they used to do so instinctively. Finn is holding back. Neither of them are huge talkers; they are both _doers_ , so when it comes down to it and there is only one thing to _do_ —drive the truck—conversation becomes kind of a necessity. But, not that Puck is sure he wants some girly heart-to-heart, it just hasn’t been very…personal. That’s the word.

Finn sucks down another mouthful of beer and then finally mutters, “I fucked up.”

Puck glances at him, “What d’ya mean?”

“When I broke up with Rachel.”

This time when Puck turns to glance at him, his head stays. He stares at Finn. “Finn. No goddamn way. Dude, you _know_ you did the right thing. Could you really have stood by while she sat in Lima, doing _nothing_ , waiting for you make plans to do something you really didn’t wanna do and live somewhere you didn’t wanna go?”

Finn scowls, squeezing the beer can so it pops a little, “I dunno. But I shouldn’t have broken up with her. I should’ve just pushed back the wedding for like, years. Cause she’s already moving on, and when I come back from the army finally a real man, she might have someone else.”

Scratching at his mohawk, Puck sighs, “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, you’re my bro, and Rachel’s like…my Jewbro, but maybe you guys just weren’t right for each other.”

Finn’s fists clench again, “Okay, I don’t agree, and…I love her. I’m about to go fight for my country, dude. How can I do that if I can’t even fight for my love?”

“Maybe fighting for your country will help you figure out how to do that.” Puck’s suddenly uncomfortable; love is touchy shit. “Go back to her after you serve a year. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.”

A small smile crosses Finn’s face, and he says, “I think that, too. Is that a Jewish thing, though? ‘Cause Rach said the same thing.”

Puck snorts, “I don’t think so. But then, I never paid much attention in synagogue.”

Finn stares at the stars for a little longer, and then he says, “But…if it’s meant to be, I don’t know if I accept that it will just _happen_. We’ve both gotta do things to make it happen.”

A shrug from Puck, “I guess so.”

Nodding decisively, Finn resolves, “I’ve just gotta make sure she doesn’t forget me.”

Misinterpreting Finn’s scheming tone, Puck just responds, “She won’t. But I’m telling ya, man. Just give her some time. Come back to this relationship later. If you’re still here and she’s still here, then your love can still exist.” He’s saying this now to try to get Finn to drop the topic. Puck doesn’t want to think about love. He’s not sure he’s ever really been in love. He came close with Lauren, he thinks, but generally he kinda gets obsessed instead. But he does want Finn to leave Rachel alone for awhile. The breakup had probably been good for them, at least for now.

Finn just nods absently, not really listening to Puck. He’s already trying to figure out how to make sure Rachel won’t forget him. How he can hold on to her heart without being able to be there to hold her.

Momentarily, the two boys unroll the pile of three other thick blankets onto the bed of the truck, toss the Mexican blanket onto the top, and settle onto it, pulling a quilt over them. They spoon, just barely, for warmth, and Puck smiles, reflecting that though he’d never say so aloud, male intimacy is something he’s always missed in his life and this is…comforting. They’re unembarrassed the next morning, and Puck thinks this bromance might finally be coming together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from The Doors, “The Crystal Ship,” D.R.I., “Don’t Wait,” and Bjork, “Army of Me.” Other songs mentioned are Janis Joplin’s cover of “Me and Bobby McGee,” originally performed by Roger Miller, but probably best known as a Janis tune (there are two common versions, one with the whole Full-Tilt Boogie Band accompanying her, and the acoustic version mentioned), Rye Rye featuring Robyn, “Never Will Be Mine,” and, again, Jim Croce, “Operator” as Quinn’s text tone.
> 
> Also, the picture described in Quinn’s bedroom is the one that SkyWarrior108 brought to our attention in the brilliant “The Truth About Quinn Fabray” essay.


	6. Hot July ain't good to me

_Hot July ain’t good to me_

 

The rest of the summer passes quickly. There are many Glee club gatherings, or partial ones, minus Puck and Finn, and Kurt who is also not often able to attend.

Puck and Finn return at the end of July, right around Quinn’s 19th birthday. Santana and Brittany throw Quinn a party (which is also kind of for Mercedes, who had a birthday about a week before Quinn’s and had celebrated only with Sam, but any time anyone tries to draw Mercedes into the celebration, she politely waves them off and tells them it’s Quinn’s day), and while Puck attends, Finn does not. Nor does Kurt, though, Quinn does get a card a few days later with sincere apologies for his missing her birthday, and an Anthropologie gift card, much to her surprise. Still, the remaining members of the Glee club hang out together, swimming and laughing and singing. Puck forces Sam to perform some of his individual synchronized swimming routines, and Sam does, performing along to a Jay-Z/The Verve mashup. Artie raps along to the entire Jay-Z part, and Puck mock-cat-calls while watching Sam, but Sam just grins, seeming to enjoy the attention.

As the evening wears on, the guys head home, but the girls stay (even Sugar, who had finally started to grow on the other girls after repeated exposure that summer; Brittany especially seems to like her), and they have a very ridiculous sleepover, enjoying the two bottles of wine Puck brought as Quinn’s present. Tina and Mercedes end up surprisingly snuggly again, which no one really knows what to say about, not even Sugar, who inexplicably seems to _gain_ a filter when she drinks. After Santana cries three separate times about the fact that they’re all about to leave Lima, and once about how flawless Brittany’s legs are, a shirtless Brittany and Santana sneak off to Brittany’s room (though everyone notices their departure). And, despite repeated attempts by everyone to get Quinn to indulge, she drinks very little, seemingly preferring to watch as Rachel gets gigglier and gigglier and cuddlier and cuddlier, eventually falling asleep with her head in Quinn’s lap.

The next morning before Rachel leaves—and she makes sure she is the last one to leave besides Quinn and Santana, who might never leave—Rachel gives Quinn her birthday present: a nice, though not insanely fancy, camera. Quinn feels her body freeze up as she holds it, and she wants to tell Rachel she absolutely can’t accept it—the girl has to save for New York, damn it—but then Rachel tells her New England is supposed to be so beautiful in the fall, and she wants to be able to capture those moments when they experience it together. There’s nothing more Quinn can do but murmur, “Come here,” and envelop Rachel in a hug.

Finn ships out that day, having seen no one but his family. Quinn feels a tiny pang of guilt that no one at her party thought to make a toast wishing him luck, or give him a group phone call, or anything, but she feels oddly relieved to know he’s no longer in town.

 

_Devil horns, best friends_

 

Rachel and Santana are to be the first ones leaving Lima besides Finn. Mike and Mercedes are to leave at around the same time, about a week after Rachel and Santana. Quinn won't leave until a week later. And of course, Kurt and Puck are staying in Lima. For now, they both keep saying.

Santana doesn’t want anyone to know, but she’s kind of freaking _the fuck_ out. She’s excited for New York, but she’s leaving behind _Brittany_ , and that’s just…it feels like a sucker punch to the heart.

Since Finn has left, Kurt seems to have a little more time, and the frequent hangouts between Santana, Brittany, Quinn and Rachel start to include Kurt, Blaine and Mercedes more often as well. Right now, they’re all at Breadstix, despite Quinn trying to convince them to go somewhere else because Rachel could only order a salad; Rachel had assured her it would be fine, because, she said, Santana had been so excited to “gets my Stix on.” Santana hadn’t been able to hide her snort at Rachel’s use of finger quotes and repetition, verbatim, of her words.

At first it seems a little odd. Kurt and Rachel are being overly courteous to each other, which, Santana knows there was some tension there and why, and while it’s good to see them growing closer again, she wishes she didn’t have to watch the awkwardness. And though Santana has actually liked Mercedes for awhile now, their friendship has mostly been about their compatible voices; talking now, about things like the future, takes some adjustment. Blaine is as pleasant as ever, but he remains somebody Santana knows very little about, and she just isn’t sure how to proceed. As for Kurt? Santana has kind of, secretly, always wanted to be closer to him. They had more in common than they had ever realized upon their first meeting: both were trying so desperately to navigate McKinley High as closeted students, both were suffering in such lonesome silence. Santana knows that stereotypically lesbians and gay men often don’t get along, but that has always seemed stupid to her. Why shouldn’t they be able to bond over their shared trauma?

It’s obvious Brittany is unfazed by the new company, but then, Brittany has always been so open with others. And Quinn? The former Ice Queen and Mercedes share sisterly smiles and giggle together at inside jokes that no one else gets, she beams when she watches Rachel and Blaine get excited about something together, and she and Kurt clearly regard each other quite fondly. Santana remembers how often Quinn and Kurt were dance partners early on in Glee and wonders idly how _that_ went at first, with the clearly-gay but not-admitting-it kid forced into close quarters with the uptight HBIC with a conservative-Christian upbringing. Evidently, it had gone okay, because although Santana can’t remember them interacting much outside of Glee, they clearly respect one another.

Mercedes talks idly about how much she’s looking forward to L.A., and about how she couldn’t have done it without Sam. Blaine just shrugs and says he’s looking forward to seeing what the next year brings to the New Directions. Kurt smiles blandly and says he’ll be helping out at his dad’s shop for awhile, but knows he won’t be able to do that for long. He then compliments Santana on her spaghetti strap dress, calling it, “Very lesbian chic.”

Santana’s eyebrows rise, but not warningly “How is this a remotely gay outfit?”

Kurt chuckles, “Aside from the fact that it’s on you? The fact that it has pockets so you don’t have to carry a purse.”

She can’t help but laugh, “Alright, you’ve got me there. Thanks, I think, Gayby Face. Although I’ll have you know I own several purses. They’re just…annoying,” she admits.

Kurt laughs and murmurs, “your gay is showing,” and regards her with the same fond expression he gives Quinn (which, Santana has realized, isn’t the same one he gives Rachel or Mercedes). Santana’s again struck by the pang—why had she waited so long to get to know Kurt?

 

_Dreaming like a picture taken of you when you were young_

 

Brittany knows she should be sadder about the fact that so many people around her are packing up to leave town—and, don’t get her wrong, she _is_ sad, and she cries more than she’ll ever let Santana know—but since midterms of Senior year, she knew she wouldn’t be going with them. Though secretly, she also realizes her GPA is impossible. She knows what cumulative means, and she passed every other year. She won’t tell anyone, not even San, who will just rant about lawsuits, but she’s pretty sure Coach Sylvester messed with her records, not ready to lose all of the Unholy Trinity in one shot. She’s had months to reconcile her future.

Her future? She’s going to re-do Senior year. Privately, this excites her just a little. She didn’t fail on purpose, but she didn’t exactly try either. She’s not sure what it is, but learning has always been very hard for her. It’s only when she’s really interested in something that learning is easy—it’s like she is able to narrow down the world to that one little topic and just suck in all the information. She’s finally started to figure out what she needs to do to learn, and vows to try harder this year—get a tutor if she needs to. She’s already talked to Tina about that.

But re-doing Senior year! Brittany fantasizes about being Senior class president, Head Cheerio, captain of the Glee club. She’s pretty sure it’s all within her grasp. Maybe this year she’ll be Prom King, too.

It’s just…there’s a part of her that’s not ready to go out into the real world yet, and the familiarity of high school is about all she can handle for the upcoming year. She knows that a year without San or Quinn, though, will kick her into gear. She’ll miss them so much that she’ll be _sure_ to graduate, just so she can be closer to them again.

But Brittany _likes_ being young. She _likes_ feeling like a kid, still. Is it such a bad thing that she wants one more year in a comfortable place where she can let her imagination run wild, where her unbelievably sweet parents still take care of all her needs, before she has to face the real world? She knows there’s scary stuff out there; Santana has told her about some of it, and she’s seen some of it (Quinn Sophomore year, once things actually went to shit, had been so difficult for empathetic Brittany to watch, and she remembers holding Santana as she sobbed to the point of dry heaving after her _abuela_ had cut her out of her life). She just…can’t. She can choose to be young. The unbelievable strength of her imagination gives her the option to arrest her development one final time, and she consciously chooses it.

And she’s always had such a good imagination. She had created a whole pantheon, a whole mythology of animals and monsters and warrior women and magical men by the time she was six, and had told her parents stories about them every night. Sometimes, she gets so caught up in her imagination that she forgets other people can’t see the things she sees, swirling behind her eyes. Not even Santana, though she always seems to understand. It’s so easy to pretend.

There’s a reason Peter Pan is her favorite book.

 

_Or is this the way love’s supposed to be_

 

Puck throws a party the day before Rachel and Santana are supposed to leave. It starts in the afternoon, unusual for a Puck party, but Rachel and Santana are leaving very early in the morning, and Rachel had planted her hands on her hips and stomped her foot and insisted that Puck’s party must end early enough for the two girls to get “a full eight hours of restful sleep before their long journey.” Brittany knows Santana won’t sleep well tonight regardless; she wants her to, she knows that she and Rachel spent the whole morning loading up their moving truck (with Brittany and Quinn’s help, of course, and Sam and Mike had even showed up toward the late morning to lend a hand, Sam claiming he would have been there earlier, but it was his only day off in four days and he wanted to sleep in some) and she’ll be exhausted, but she’ll also want to make love for hours, and there’s no way Brittany can ever deny her that, when she needs it just as much.

Even though Puck’s family is home, he’s still managed to make it an authentic Puckerman party; soon, the fact that the blue Kool-Aid is spiked becomes the party’s not-so-secret, and everyone has immediately indulged (later on, Puck’s mom will come out to check on things, will notice everyone acting a bit goofy, but will decide not to comment; she knows Puck’s going to be quietly heartbroken with the diaspora of the Glee club and allows him this indulgence).

They’re all mostly gathered outside. Puck doesn’t have a pool, but he does have a hose, and has set up a sprinkler on the “mist” setting, so it’s refreshing without being soaking; everyone’s jumping and dancing around the sprinkler like a bunch of kids. Puck’s manning the grill, wearing a “Kiss the Cook” apron, which has earned him sarcastic air kisses from all the guys in Glee, but from none of the women, which makes him pout until Rachel takes pity on him and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Careful, Rach,” Quinn calls with a scowl, her cheeks lightly flushed from the blue Kool-Aid, “That was step one of the worst decision of my life!” Rachel looks chastised until Quinn forces a smile at her, and Puck wraps an arm around Rachel and says, “Don’t worry, baby mama, she’s like my Jewbro. I don’t see her that way, although she is undeniably a hot Jew.” Rachel giggles, and Quinn glares at Puck until he finishes serving Rachel a black bean burger and she walks back to sit next to Quinn.

Kurt had said that Blaine is going to be a little late, and he arrives about an hour into the party, grinning conspiratorially. A smile breaks out over Kurt’s face and he jumps up from the table to give Blaine a hug and a quick peck, and Blaine whispers something in his ear. Kurt pulls back, wide-eyed, and breathes, “You didn’t.”

At this point, everyone else is waving at Blaine and calling greetings, and he turns from Kurt to smile at everyone, and calls cheekily, “I’m going to need a few hot, buff guys to give me a hand. I’ve brought a surprise!”

“Sam and me have got this!” Puck shouts, nudging Sam in the ribs. Sam grins and stands up.

“What’s the surprise?” a clearly impatient Rachel hollers.

“You’ll see!” is Blaine’s answer, and Rachel huffs.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I am _not_ a patient person, Blaine—”

Quinn interrupts to call, with a smile in her voice, “She’s really not!”

Ignoring the interruption except to fold her arms and pout slightly, Rachel continues “—and I would like to know at once. I’m sure Santana agrees with me, and as this is our party—”

“Berry, don’t you drag me into this.”

Blaine’s just laughing now, pointing Puck and Sam toward his car, “Oh, fine. It’s a karaoke machine!”

At this, there’s an eruption of excitement. Rachel launches herself up from her seat and fires herself at Blaine, tackling him with a huge hug and crying out, “I could _kiss_ you!”

Blaine laughs awkwardly, and shoots a glance at Kurt, who has huffed and folded his arms, though there’s humor in his eyes, “Been there, done that, sweetie,” he tells her, and they look at each other and both erupt into giggles.

Puck and Sam carry the machine to the backyard, making a show of grunting and flexing even though it’s not that heavy. As Rachel begins to chatter to Kurt about her repertoire, wondering what she should sing first, Mercedes grabs Santana’s arm, “C’mon, S-Lo, we got this, girl.”

Laughing in surprise, Santana follows Mercedes up, where they have a brief discussion, and stand around waiting impatiently for Blaine and Puck to finish hooking the machine up. But as soon as it’s set up, the speakers erupt with sound and Santana and Mercedes let loose with “We Belong.” Mercedes grins at Sam, who is recording the performance on his phone, and Santana winks at Brittany, who feels her heart bob up into her throat, and she blows her girl a kiss.

Brittany keeps most of her attention on the performance, but as Santana has broken eye contact to read the words she needs to sing, Brittany sits back and gives some attention to the others at the table with her. She realizes Tina, who has been sitting on her other side, is looking at her with a slight smile. Mike, who had, understandably, been holding Tina’s attention for much of the afternoon, is over talking animatedly with Artie. Brittany smiles back at Tina, and searches for a way to break the ice, “I’m glad you’re going to be with me at school next year. You’ll be a great co-captain for Glee.”

Tina looks slightly surprised, but grins a bit, “Thanks, Brittany. I’m glad you’ll be there, too. We’ll need your dancing with Mike leaving and all.”

Brittany nods seriously, “I’m Mike Chang, but neutered. And with better abs,” she states, making Tina’s eyebrows tick up and a laugh bubble out of her throat.

They turn back to watch as Mercedes and Santana finish up the song with proud smiles, and both applaud enthusiastically. Mike and Artie step up next, while Rachel tugs at Santana and Mercedes and begins yapping excitedly at them, pointing to several songs in the karaoke machine’s book. The sound of “Just Like Heaven” begins to come from the speakers, and Artie takes the lead vocals, while Mike dances and sings along during the chorus.

Tina is focused on the performance for a bit, but then turns back to Brittany with a small smile, “Isn’t it weird that we’re both going to be at McKinley with Artie, while both our loves will be so far away?”

Brittany twists her mouth. She hasn’t thought too much about that. She was pretty certain she and Artie had made peace. They hadn’t talked about it, but she had a feeling he knew that she’d never really given him all of her, that Santana had always had a piece of her heart. She had loved Artie—falling in love was easy for Brittany—but Santana would always come first, and he had known that. It had been so hard for her to _not_ just break up with Artie and be with Santana when they’d finally put their feelings out in the open, but Brittany always had strong ideas about what was fair, and she had thought at the time that it was only fair to give Artie a full chance. And then, because Santana was always so prickly about feelings, she had avoided talking about it when they so _obviously_ were dating. She was afraid to push Santana away again, and she knew her heart couldn’t handle that.

She wonders if Santana has been thinking about this—but who is she kidding, of course Santana has. She’s always wanted Santana and Artie to make peace, and she supposes they have, somewhat. Both are adamant that they don’t hate each other, though there’s always tension. Brittany’s pretty sure Artie is over her, so she thinks the tension is more habit than actual jealousy on his part, but Santana has always been jealous. She wonders if she should reassure Santana somehow that Artie’s her friend, and that’s all he’ll be.

“I guess I haven’t thought about that,” Brittany admits, “San and I haven’t talked about it.”

Tina nods, “Mike and I talked about it very briefly. He’s not very worried; he and Artie have become good friends these past few years. Artie was my first boyfriend, my first love, but Mike has always treated me better.” Tina fixes Brittany with a look, “You…may want to talk about it with Santana. We all know how she gets. She’s very protective of you.”

Brittany smiles, “I know. I…sometimes wonder if I can do this without her.” It’s such a vague phrase, do this, and she really does mean it. Do this. Do _everything_ , do _anything_ , without Santana holding her hand, linking their pinkies.

“You will,” Tina reassures, “You still have friends here who will watch you back. Besides, who is going to mess with a two-term Senior class president?”

“And head Cheerio and Glee captain. And Homecoming and Prom king,” Brittany recites. Tina raises her eyebrows at this, but smiles anyway, and they watch as the boys finish up their The Cure song. They both hear Rachel, loud in her tipsy state, shouting at Santana, “You sounded _so good_ on that song! _Please_ sing it with me!” Santana rolls her eyes playfully, and the two step up and begin to perform “Constant Craving,” which is how Santana Lopez ends up _again_ singing a homoerotically charged song with Rachel Berry, much to the intrigue and amusement of the rest of the club.

Brittany smiles and murmurs, “This is so hot,” which makes Tina laugh and nod her agreement, and they watch silently for a good part of the performance, until, hesitating, Tina then asks, “Do you wonder…what it’s going to be like for them? I mean, for like, Mike and Santana? Or even Mercedes, who I assume is going to try to make things work long-distance with Sam?”

Frowning a little, Brittany questions, “They’ll be living their dreams, won’t they? I think it will be great for them.”

Tina shakes her head, “No, I mean…they’ll be off somewhere brand new, with so many other new, beautiful people…and we’ll be so far away, and we won’t get to see them that much…I guess I’m worried they’ll forget us.”

A smile from Brittany, “First of all, we’re both really hot. So I don’t think New York or Chicago will have much on us. Second, they love us.” Tina gives a relieved chuckle, but then Brittany continues, “I have thought about it, of course. Everyone thinks I don’t worry about things like this, but everything that has to do with San, I think about. She could fall for somebody else. And if she does, I would have to let her go. I want her to be happy. This year…might be a bump in the road for me and San, but I think it’s a long road for us. I think she’s my future, and that’s all that matters.”

Shock all over her face, Tina says, “You’d…let her go?”

Brittany smiles sadly, “If that’s what she needed. I don’t want to. But wouldn’t you do the same for Mike?”

Tina bites her lip, “I don’t know if I’d be strong enough.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be, either,” Brittany agrees, “So we’ll just have to help each other if it comes to it. Which it won’t,” she finishes confidently.

Tina smiles tremulously and leans in to give Brittany a one-armed hug, as Santana and Rachel finish their song and Rachel skips back over to the table and plops down next to Quinn. Brittany accepts Tina’s hug and leans into her for several moments, and they watch as Sugar pushes a slightly shell-shocked looking Rory up to the microphone, screaming, “Come on! You’re Irish, show me your Commitments!”

Quinn’s head shoots up from the cheeseburger and blue Kool-Aid she’s been nursing, “I love The Commitments!” she purrs excitedly.

From a few seats down at the table, Brittany hears Mercedes murmur, “Buncha white folks singing Motown? That does sound like your thing, White Funk.”

Giggling, Rachel leans into Quinn and says throatily, “I believe that movie set records for use of the so-called ‘f-bomb’.”

Quinn’s already halfway out of her seat as the beginning sounds of “Mustang Sally” fill the air, but she pauses to pat Rachel slightly on the head and husk in her alcohol-soaked voice, “Sounds about right,” and Brittany sees something of Santana in Quinn’s hazel gaze, trained on Rachel’s bright smile, but the moment passes and then Quinn’s prancing over to Rory and grabbing the other microphone to sing along with him.

Brittany feels arms circle her chest from behind, and she leans into the cinnamon-scented warmth of her girlfriend with a contented smile, “Come on,” Santana rasps in her ear, “I want to sing with my baby.”

After applauding Rory and Quinn, who grin at each other shyly and give high-fives (Brittany can’t remember if they’ve ever interacted much; Rory tended to make himself scarce when Quinn visited, probably because that usually meant Santana was there, too, and he was kind of afraid of Santana), Brittany and Santana step up to sing “Nothing Else I Can Say.” Which…first of all, trust Blaine to get a karaoke machine with full Lady Gaga discography, but Brittany chose it as something to _reassure_ Santana, she hopes.

Rachel loops her arm through Quinn’s before Quinn can get back to her food, and even while singing with Santana, Brittany can hear Rachel telling Quinn that “this song would be _perfect_ for your voice; it’s in your range, and you’ve got the perfect smoothness to your voice to make it _more_ sensual than the original!” Quinn’s kind of wide-eyed and looks like she might want to protest, but Brittany knows Rachel Berry has some sort of magical powers—maybe she’s a wizard?—because, like always, Quinn just shakes her head an amusement and agrees, and they stand, arms still linked, to wait their turn.

They turn out to be singing “Heaven Tonight” and Rachel is absolutely right about Quinn’s voice. Rachel has allowed herself to take backing vocals (Brittany hears Sugar loudly proclaims in her unabashed way that she “thought I’d never see Berry play second fiddle to anyone!”), which is a lot of “aaah”s and some repeating Quinn, until the last verse, where she harmonizes with Quinn, and Brittany gets chills all over. Brittany glances over at Santana, to see her eyebrows raised as she watches, “They’re really good, huh?” she asks.

Shaking her head as if coming out of a daze, Santana smiles and wraps her in a hug, “Yeah, baby, but we’re better.”

“Duh,” Brittany responds, and nuzzles Santana’s cheek.

 

_Now we molt past our skin and make room to begin_

 

The karaoke machine gets pretty constant use as the afternoon drifts into the evening, and as Tina and Kurt enact a lively rendition of “Marry the Man Today” (laughing a lot, though Kurt is glancing at Rachel more often than Blaine as he sings), Brittany is snuggled into Santana’s lap on one of Puck’s fold out chairs. Alcohol eventually makes Brittany sleepy, after the urge to dance wears out, and though she’s kept her shirt on this evening, they have definitely danced.

Quinn is sipping on another cup of Kool-Aid; she’s probably been drinking more than Brittany has ever seen, which is unusual, but she’s not ridiculously drunk, so Brittany isn’t too worried. She’s more worried about Santana, who has her face buried in Brittany’s neck and is probably minutes away from bursting into tears.

So when Joe approaches Quinn and they begin to talk and laugh, Brittany is understandably distracted. They’ve been talking for several minutes, and Quinn is smiling at him engagingly, and it’s when he leans in to actually take a _sniff_ at her that Rachel appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and asks Quinn to please accompany her to sing a song.

Shooting a wide-eyed, pale-faced look of panic at a nearly oblivious Santana and Brittany (Santana can’t identify the expression through her watery eyes, and Brittany is so sleepy that she just smiles and waves in response), Rachel pulls Quinn away until they’re several yards behind Santana and Brittany’s chair, kind of near the karaoke machine but theoretically out of earshot of those hanging around it. “Quinn! Are you alright? Was he proposing anything untoward?”

Chuckling a little, Quinn answers, “He was fine. He’s a gentleman, and even if he were suggesting anything sexual, there’s no way I would have agreed to anything with him anyway. I’m not _that_ drunk.”

“Oh,” Rachel sounds almost dejected, “Well, then. I’m sorry to have interrupted your conversation.”

“S’okay,” Quinn responds, “I liked the interruption. Very dramatic.”

Giggling shyly, Rachel pushes her hair behind her ear and then glances up at Quinn, “Can I ask a question? I…thought you didn’t drink at Noah’s parties?”

“Oh. Right.” Quinn seems to be debating her answer, but finally shrugs and says, “I trust everyone here. Maybe that’s naïve, but as Puck’s mom is here, too, I really don’t think there will be any rendezvous. At least not any that would be mistakes.”

“You’re probably right,” Rachel agrees, and then, without warning, leans in to hug Quinn. Quinn seems to be caught off balance and emits out a husky bark of a surprised laugh before righting herself and holding Rachel in return, her nearly empty cup of Kool-Aid laying forgotten on the grass beside them. “I’m going to miss you,” she hears murmured against her shoulder.

Quinn swallows thickly, “I’ll miss you too. So much, Rach. I wish I could come with to help you unpack.”

“I know,” Rachel whispers, “But we should be saving our money to make the most of those weekends when we visit each other. I’m sure Santana will charm some boys who live in our building to help us carry everything up, and if not, well, she and I are both quite fit, and my dads aren’t too old to help lift yet. We’ll make it work.”

“I’ll come visit you as soon as I can. Like, first weekend of my semester. I don’t even care what my workload is like,” Quinn’s tone is fierce, and her arms pull tighter, and something about it makes Rachel think Quinn is about to go into angry-drunk Quinn territory, it’s just so _intense_.

So as she disengages gently, an idea hits her and her eyes pop, “Want me to come help you unpack?” she asks so quickly that Quinn needs to take a moment to process it.

“When I move in to Yale? Oh, sweetie, that’s isn’t necessary. Besides, it will be a weekday, so that I have a long weekend of orientation to look forward to, and I am not having you miss your own on my watch!” Quinn nods firmly.

Rachel laughs again and leans into Quinn, “You’re right. You’re right. But okay. As soon as we’re both settled, we’ll visit. It won’t be too long. Right?”

“Right,” Quinn smiles down at her, and Rachel thinks that Quinn is really not an angry drunk at all. She’s a very sweet drunk.

Curiosity getting the best of her, Santana had been eavesdropping on the entire conversation, her tears having abated somewhat when Brittany fell into a light doze on her shoulder. She smiles wryly, torn between how sweet it is and the slight jealousy that her best friend seems to have another best friend. But when she remembers that they’ll all hang out in New York, the former wins out. She’s never heard Quinn be open quite like she has this summer, and she’s starting to think she knows what—or rather, who—pushes Quinn to be that way. And even if it wasn’t for her, and their friendship, she loves that _someone_ is bringing it out of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles are from Chairlift, “Bruises,” Sleigh Bells, “Infinity Guitars” (though there is apparently some disagreement about whether these lyrics are accurate), Silver Swans, “Let Me Know Now,” Martha and the Vandellas, “Heatwave,” and Crystal Castles, “Empathy.” Other songs mentioned are “Bittersweet Dirt Off Your Shoulder,” a Jay-Z/The Verve mashup that I can’t definitively find who created, Pat Benatar, “We Belong,” The Cure, “Just Like Heaven,” k. d. lang, “Constant Craving,” The Commitments, “Mustang Sally,” made famous by Wilson Pickett, Lady Gaga, “Eh, Eh (Nothing Else I Can Say),” Hole, “Heaven Tonight,” and “Marry the Man Today” from Guys and Dolls . Song heavy chapter, for sure.
> 
> And yes, Artie singing The Cure is a nod to Powergrapes’s “Head Full of Doubt, Road Full of Promise.”
> 
> Executive decision has been made about the age of all the characters, which the show is very inconsistent on. Relevant to this chapter, even though Quinn says she is 17 in season 3, I think it makes much more sense if she is 18, as Shelby says (the whole pregnant at 16, and having piercings and tattoos by the time she gets back to school are part of my rationale). I don’t think she was held back or anything, she’s just one of the oldest people in her class because of cut-off date for birthdays for school enrollment or something.


	7. I guess I am a scout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning this chapter, there will be an Original Character Guide in the end notes of each chapter. If you can't remember who an original character is, then end notes should give you a spoiler-free recap of what we've learned about the character so far in order to jog your memory.

_I guess I am a scout_

 

Hands wrapped around a thermos of coffee, Santana glares at the sky, which is tinged with dawn, as Brittany drives them over to Rachel’s house. Santana’s car is already there, with a few things shoved into the back. Everything else is in the truck Rachel’s parents will be driving.

As they pull up, Santana is surprised to see Quinn’s car there—or rather, her mother’s car that she’s been borrowing all summer—just behind hers on the curb. She frowns. It’s so early (did Quinn stay at Rachel’s overnight?). She and Brittany had driven over to Puck’s in Brittany’s car yesterday, and Quinn and Rachel had taken Rachel’s car (it had made sense, since Brittany lived on the other side of town from Rachel and Quinn, for them to take two cars from packing at Rachel’s to Puck’s). So Santana is trying to remember if Quinn’s car has moved. She’s honestly not sure.

She had expected Brittany to be the only one to see them off, honestly. She’d said her goodbyes to her parents the day before, after they’d packed her things into the truck and were about to take it over to Rachel’s (it had been easier to pack Santana’s things, since Rachel’s parents were providing more of the communal furniture). She’d hugged both her parents, but especially her mom, had given them an exceedingly rare “I love you,” and had told them under no condition to show up today because it would be too hard to say goodbye to them and Brittany all at once.

But Quinn’s here. Even though she’s pretty sure she hugged Quinn goodbye the night before as she and Brittany left, but it’s hard to say, because it’s all so hazy; they’d all stayed longer than they had anticipated. And when they knock on the front door and Quinn answers, her appearance gives Santana no clues about whether or not she stayed the night. She’s dressed, in jeans, a small, plain t-shirt that Santana doesn’t recognize (could it be Rachel’s?), and with her letterman slung over her arm (would Quinn have packed that in anticipation of a cold morning? Or does that indicate she came over this morning? But it’s really not a cold morning, and Quinn’s hair looks messy? Would she leave her house with it like that?).

Santana stops thinking about it when Quinn ushers them in, to find Rachel in the kitchen, pouring coffee into four thermoses. “I’ve got one,” Santana intones, and Rachel nods, but fills the fourth anyway “just in case.” Her fathers are loading the dishwasher with, presumably, the breakfast dishes, but Santana doesn’t pay enough attention in time to count whether there were three or four of anything (but would that tell her anything anyway; Quinn could have arrived early enough to be offered breakfast, and why is she so fixated on this anyway? Is she jealous of their friendship? That makes no sense).

“We’re just about ready,” Rachel broadcasts, her manic energy already making Santana wince. Rachel races up the stairs, each footstep thudding loudly in Santana’s sleep-deprived headache-y skull, and Brittany wraps a sympathetic arm around her when she sees her expression. Quinn seems to be wincing slightly as well, but she turns and gives Santana a shrug and a fond smile, then moves to her side and slides an arm around her shoulders, so that Santana is being held lightly between both blondes. She closes her eyes and basks in their affection for a moment, and Rachel’s parents brush by them to head up the stairs in a much more subdued manner.

Rachel comes racing down the stairs not long after, wearing a backpack and clutching a small bag—perhaps a toiletry bag—relaying, “My dads will be down momentarily. Do you have anything to throw into the car, Santana?”

Santana nods, and Rachel produces her car key (left there just in case the car had needed to move for any reason) and they put Rachel’s bags, and Santana’s bag from Brittany’s car into Santana’s black Toyota. Then they stand awkwardly on the sidewalk, all staring at each other.

Finally, Rachel breaks the silence to say to Brittany warmly, “Back in uniform, I see?”

Brittany nods, “Cheer camp starts today. I think I’m gonna be head cheerleader.” Santana smiles and winces simultaneously. She’s proud of Brittany, because she’s sure she’ll get it, but frustrated that she’s repeating a year. And more frustrating, cheer camp is one reason Brittany can’t come help them move. It’s two and a half weeks of non-stop cheerleading until the first day of school, which is different than previous years, which used to have the cheerleaders there staying over Monday through Thursday, with weekends at home, for the entire month of August. Santana supposes it’s Roz Washington’s influence, or maybe, god, did Sue Sylvester spawn yet? She has no idea when the baby is due, but maybe it was pushed back for that.

“You are,” Rachel and Quinn say simultaneously, the former encouragingly, the latter decisively, then make eye contact and smile a little bit stupidly.

Rachel’s fathers come out of the house shortly afterwards, carrying small rolling suitcases that they tuck into Santana’s backseat. Depending on their timing, they may attempt to catch a late train or flight home that night if they can get one, or they might stay in a hotel and leave the next day, but they’ve made it clear they’re not staying with Santana and Rachel, which, Santana appreciates their courtesy, even though she feels like she’s reeling and the presence of parents may actually _help_ for once…

“Are you ladies ready?” Leroy asks them with a sympathetic smile.

“We’ll give you a few minutes,” Hiram cuts in before they can answer and gives a mirrored smile, and he and Leroy hop up into the moving truck to wait.

Santana turns to Quinn and leans in to wrap her in a fierce hug. Neither of them have necessarily been huggers their whole lives, but it’s comfortable, resting her cheek on Quinn’s shoulder and squeezing so tightly she’s nearly nuzzling the girl’s neck. Quinn expels a soft sigh into Santana’s hair and says, her voice tight, “I’ll see you soon, San.”

“I know, Q. I can’t wait,” she says honestly.

Meanwhile, she hears the same kinds of murmurs from Rachel and Brittany, and she and Quinn part in time to see Brittany lift a surprised Rachel (who responds with the appropriate squeal) and spin her once before saying, “I’m so excited for you, Rachel! I’ll see you for Thanksgiving?” Rachel giggles and nods. Brittany turns to Quinn and grins widely before enveloping her into a huge hug, gushing into Quinn’s neck, “I might not get to see you before you leave, because of cheer camp, but I love you, Q, and you’re gonna be amazing!”

Quinn breathes in deeply and a, “Love you, head Cheerio,” barely passes her lips as she again attempts to hold back her tears. Brittany chuckles and pats Quinn’s hair affectionately as they pull apart.

And then…Santana meets Brittany’s eyes, sees the bright ocean blues mist slightly and takes the quick strides to her before flinging her arms around her and holding her _so tight_ she’s not sure it would even be possible to produce the breath to cry. Brittany clings back just as tightly and after several very long moments, they kiss, a rough, clumsy kiss with clacking teeth and bumping foreheads, before Brittany whispers tremulously, “I’m going to be late for cheer camp, but I don’t want to let go of you, baby…”

Santana holds her tighter for a few more moments and then pulls back slightly and swallows, “I don’t want you to have to watch me drive away. You should go now, baby. I love you, Britts. I’ll see you _so soon_. I’ll call you tonight.”

“I love you, Santana,” Brittany responds, and Santana feels the gravity of her words, _feels_ how much different they are than the same words spoken to Quinn. Brittany sends a wave to the side mirror of the moving truck and one to Quinn and Rachel, who seem to be too engrossed in each other to notice, and steps gracefully into her car. Santana stares at the champagne-colored car as Brittany pulls away, watching until it’s out of sight.

When she can no longer see Brittany, she starts toward her own car, but then it registers that Rachel and Quinn are _still_ saying goodbye. She watches, half-annoyed that they’re managing to take _longer_ than her and Brittany, and half-fascinated by the way Quinn is holding Rachel’s shoulders lightly and Rachel’s hands are resting on Quinn’s biceps. She can’t see Quinn’s face, but Rachel’s eyes are wide and dark, and she can barely hear Quinn saying, “I’m so proud of you, and I’m going to see you _so soon_ , Rachel. You’re on your way to an amazing life.” Rachel looks as though Quinn has just told her the most important thing she will ever learn, with the way her attention is completely held by the girl, by the way her eye contact never wavers in the slightest. Santana tries not to huff and inspects her nails out of sudden discomfort. She feels like she has intruded on something private.

The two hug one more time (and Santana _does_ huff at this, but neither seem to notice), and they pull apart and Rachel starts toward the car. Santana can see her wipe away a tear, can see several fresh tears on Quinn’s face, and Rachel turns to look at Quinn as she moves around the car and lowers herself into the driver’s seat. Santana’s in no mood to argue about who drives; she wants a nap before she has to drive her parts of their approximately 11-hour trip.

Rachel starts the car, tips the rearview mirror down slightly, and gives a short honk to let her parents know they’re ready to go. They hear the truck rumble to life. Rachel fishes out a printed version of their directions and tells Santana it’s also already input into Maps on her phone, and then they follow the truck as it pulls away from the curb. Santana can’t help but watch Quinn in her side mirror, standing almost forlornly with her hands in her letterman pockets on the sidewalk in front of the Berry house, watching them drive away. She misses the way Rachel watches Quinn in her review mirror, too.

 

_I hope your dreams are as good as mine_

 

It’s the day after what was probably one of the most exhausting and stressful days of Santana’s life, and both she and Rachel managed to sleep until eleven—which is about twelve hours of sleep. But that only made sense considering they’d been up very early, drove for almost twelve hours—caravanning with the truck slowed them somewhat—and spent over an hour unloading the truck. Rachel’s dads stayed just long enough to help them put together their beds, since that was the most important furniture, and then took the truck to its drop-off location and checked into a hotel. They had probably left town already.

Santana’s room is filled with boxes and bags and furniture at the moment. Nothing is where it should be yet, but at least her bed is comfortable. Both she and Rachel bought new twin beds—in fact, Rachel got all new furniture—when they’d realized their current beds were probably going to be too big for the space they had. Santana had brought some of her own furniture from her room, so it was a little mismatched, but Rachel’s all matched—it was all blonde wood. Santana didn’t really care about the matching, but she appreciated that Rachel had also sacrificed to downsize on her bed; her room—she had taken the larger room—was big enough that she probably could have brought a larger bed.

Shuffling out into their kitchenette, Santana groans upon realizing their coffee machine is still in one of the boxes stacked in the corner. She starts to dig through them, grumbling all the while. There’s a lot to do today. Santana had assured Hiram and Leroy that she could handle putting together the rest of the new furniture and they’d given her and Rachel a small tool kit. Santana had smirked and joked that now she would be expected to take care of minor household repairs, which did make Rachel’s dads laugh and Rachel frown slightly at the implication that she’d be incapable, but ultimately, she laughed too. But there will be unpacking, assembling, helping each other move furniture…They also need to buy groceries. Rachel’s dads left them a gift card to the nearest grocery store as another housewarming gift. They brought a few dry goods with them—some cereal, coffee, a few cans of beans, a loaf of bread…but there’s so much else to buy.

And Santana can’t face _any_ of this shit if she can’t have coffee. She’s digging through the boxes when she hears the light footsteps behind her and stands and turns, folding her arms. Rachel regards her warily through bleary eyes, clearly sensing her frustration, and folds her arms over her chest guardedly. Santana vaguely notes that Rachel’s wearing very small cotton shorts and a tank top, and if she weren’t so exhausted and frustrated, she’d probably mildly appreciate the sight (what, she’s in love with Brittany, but she’s not _blind_ , and Rachel isn’t _unattractive_ ). She also remembers that she’s wearing Cheerios shorts with a matching tank top and wonders vaguely if this outfit is adding to Rachel’s anxiety, but whatever. “Any idea where the _fuck_ the coffee machine is?”

“There’s no need for that kind of language, Santana,” Rachel chastises, and the way it trails off into a yawn dulls Santana’s annoyance. “And yes. I think it’s in this one.” Rachel crouches down in front of a different stack of boxes and opens one, soon extracting their new coffee machine. It’s nothing fancy, only makes about six cups, but neither of them are that picky—Santana just needs morning caffeine, and Rachel rarely drinks coffee, though she anticipates she’ll develop the habit by living a student’s lifestyle.

“Thanks,” Santana grunts begrudgingly.

Rachel beams and hesitates, requesting softly, “Can you make me a cup? I’m still exhausted from yesterday.”

Santana nods absently, reminding her, “Lots to do today.”

“Ugh,” is Rachel’s response, but as she stands on her toes and tugs a loaf of bread down from a cabinet, asking Santana if she wants toast, Santana can’t help but smile through her caffeine withdrawal headache. Their simpatico in the kitchen feels auspicious.

The day goes about as well as can be expected. Santana assembles their furniture, with some help from Rachel, and they help each other move the furniture where they want it. They head to the grocery store in Santana’s car, which is stressful as hell. There isn't a ton of traffic, but no one seems particularly interested in obeying traffic laws, and Santana's too cautious and unfamiliar with the roads to keep up with the other drivers.

It’s amusing, though, because the fact that they’re both famished because they had just peanut butter sandwiches for lunch means their cart is ridiculously full. But at the meat counter, Santana gnaws on her tongue and stares at the thick slabs of beef and chicken. Her stomach roils, but not from hunger this time. She turns to Rachel, who is watching her, biting her lip uncertainly. Finally, Santana sighs, “I’m just now realizing I really don’t know how to cook any of this shit.”

An amused exhalation, and Rachel responds, “There's no need to be vulgar, Santana, and well, as you know, I am vegan, so I am of no help there.”

Running a hand through her hair, Santana questions, “Would…the smell of it bother you, anyway? I mean, I don’t know how often we’ll be eating together because of our schedules, so I’d probably be making a lot of my own food anyway, but I wouldn’t want to…make you feel nauseous in your own home.”

A shrug, “It might, slightly. But I want you to eat what you want.”

Santana eyes the wet-looking flaps of chicken and that disgust fills her belly again. She imagines trying to cook it and messing it up and getting sick. She turns away, “I’m sticking with hotdogs and lunch meat. Only ordering that stuff from restaurants. Congrats, Berry. Your new roommate is an occasional vegetarian.” Rachel beams at this and Santana rolls her eyes, smiling slightly herself, and they attack the organic aisle to a degree that shocks Santana.

After putting away a literal car-full of groceries—managing to spend the entire gift certificate and then some, because _shit_ , groceries were more expensive here—Rachel makes spaghetti and salad for dinner (nothing special, a box of whole wheat spaghetti, a jar of sauce and a plastic container of mixed greens), and they devour that. The next step is actually unpacking boxes, and neither of them are quite ready for that, so they flop onto their new-and-used living room furniture with their laptops (Santana silently thanks Rachel’s foresight in calling the cable company far in advance, because their internet had been set up just before they left for the grocery store).

Santana is scrolling absentmindedly through photos of Brittany on Facebook when she hears Rachel gasp. Eyebrows quirking, Santana glances up to see Rachel’s face matches the outburst—her hand is over her mouth and her eyes are wide, staring at her screen. “Everything okay?” Santana tries to sound casual to mask her curiosity and—she’ll admit it, but not out loud—concern.

Rachel meets Santana’s gaze and questions softly, “Did Quinn tell you about the gift she gave me before school ended?”

Santana shrugs in response, “Can’t say it ever came up.”

Biting her lip, Rachel deflects her gaze and quietly states, “You have heard us say that we’re going to be visiting each other a lot, I’m sure.” At Santana’s nod, she continues, “It’s because of the gift. Quinn got us each Metro-North passes. So we can go see each other whenever we want.”

“Huh,” Santana responds, sensing that it’s required. “That’s pretty awesome, actually.” She waits for Rachel to continue with whatever shocked her.

Nodding, Rachel agrees, “It’s very sweet. I told her as much. But I never thought much about…the cost. And I was just looking it up, to have an idea of what it will cost to replace when it expires, and, Santana…they’re…well, I knew they must be somewhat pricey, but…they’re nearly two hundred dollars apiece. And she bought two…she… _I_ didn’t even know if I’d be in New York at that point! And she was already spending that kind of money on me when we’d barely been friends for a few months, at most!”

Staring at Rachel, Santana feels a flash of…jealously, initially. Quinn had certainly never exactly been frugal when giving gifts, but _this_ …this was huge. But then that fades and is replaced by puzzlement and a kind of strange feeling, like she’s forgotten about a close family member. It _does_ seem strange for Quinn to do this, especially if things were still up in the air for Rachel. And though clearly Quinn and Rachel had become close this summer, Santana wasn’t aware that they’d been close enough to warrant this kind of promise of continued contact when school was still in session.

Santana is sure she’s missing something. That there’s some piece of information about the friendship between Quinn and Rachel that will make Quinn’s behavior make sense. But she doesn’t have it, and clearly Rachel doesn’t either, and Santana feels instinctively that asking Quinn why she spent that kind of money to ensure her friendship with Rachel stays strong would just be…awkward somehow. So instead she shrugs and says, “Quinn must’ve had faith in you and New York, and in your friendship. That sounds like her. So how long are they valid?”

Rachel shakes her head and chuckles, “I can make ten trips in six months, starting over the summer and so ending in December, unfortunately, but if we each have ten trips, that’s five there and back, and since school is generally about sixteen weeks long, we can expect to see each other more weekends than not!”

Santana laughs, kind of uncontrollably as the absurdity turns into hilarity in her mind. “Damn, Berry. Quinn must really like you!” She shifts her gaze back to her laptop, figuring that’s the end of the conversation, and misses the way Rachel bites her lip _hard_ at Santana’s words and then soothes it with her tongue, eyes puzzled.

 

_I could sleep for a thousand years_

 

They get the boxes in their apartment unpacked the next day, although there are a few boxes shoved into the back of their surprisingly deep hall closet of things that don’t really fit at the moment. Santana likes her room, even though it’s small, and Rachel’s larger room has just enough space for her desk and elliptical. Their living room is a bit bigger than they realized; the couch, armchair, coffee table, entertainment center and bookshelf aren’t as crowded as they thought they might be. Santana reflects that she could have brought a desk and it would fit in the room, but she doesn’t regret her choice. She really doesn’t need one at this point. She mostly uses her laptop on the couch or on her bed.

Now, Santana is attempting to stay up as late as she can, since she starts her first work shift in two nights. Even though she was frequently awake until two or three in the morning during the summer, it’s become unusually difficult. The excitement of the new apartment, or perhaps the unfamiliarity, or the stuffy heat in her room, had forced her awake at around eight that morning, even when she tried to sleep in. Plus, their walls are a little thin, and occasionally, if Rachel drops something, or hits a high note in the shower, it wakes Santana up.

Her eyelids are drooping, out of her control. She glances at the clock. 1:30. This is pathetic. Santana opens YouTube and starts playing music, but not too loudly. She’s scrolling through pictures of Brittany again. They’d only been able to talk on the phone for a little bit the past few nights—Cheer camp is really exhausting and Brittany needs her rest. Santana misses her. She’s listening to some music Puck sent her awhile ago—Metric, because it’s pretty upbeat and bass-heavy, and “pretty good for chick music,” as Puck said—and staring at Facebook and…

Apparently, it didn’t work very well, because Rachel shakes her awake at about 7:00am. She’s sprawled back on the couch with her laptop balanced on her hips—thank god she didn’t turn over in the night—YouTube stalling out on a video where the plugin refused to load, Facebook open to a picture of Brittany holding Lord Tubbington and winking at the camera.

Santana groans loudly and closes her laptop, setting it on the coffee table, “I might’ve made it to 2am,” she grunts, shuffling to her room and laying back down in bed. Even though Rachel isn’t keeping her awake—Santana can’t hear her at all—Santana can’t fall back to sleep, and by 7:30, she huffs and grumbles obscenities as she kicks off her blankets and drags her feet to the coffee machine.

They spend their first day not unpacking exploring their neighborhood a little more thoroughly than they had on their earlier New York trip. There’s surprisingly little to see, as it’s mostly residential, but there are some coffee chains, fast food places, pizza shops and pharmacies nearby, particularly as they get closer to the subway station. Santana accompanies Rachel to her campus—she won’t start orientation for another week—but they walk all around and Rachel maps out where her classes are and where she’ll have to go for orientation. Santana smiles at her enthusiasm, but has to admit she’s mildly jealous of Rachel’s future opening up in front of her. Santana’s future right now is retail work. It makes her stomach roil.

That night produces similar results. She wonders if maybe she should’ve stayed home and relaxed rather than explored with Rachel, but the truth is, she enjoyed exploring and the company. But Santana finds herself dropping off on the couch at around 2am. She sighs and goes to bed, managing to sleep until about 10, which…could be worse.

But understandably, as the evening comes closer, Santana is freaking out. She’s wearing the clothes required for her uniform and is sitting on the couch staring at the wall. Rachel comes back from grabbing a few things at the grocery store—bread was the necessity that forced her to go—and frowns when she sees Santana. “Santana? Did you eat dinner? And what are you packing for your lunch?”

Santana rubs a hand over her face and repeats uncertainly, “Packing my lunch?”

Frowning, Rachel lectures, “I know you were on quite a restrictive diet throughout high school, but you can’t expect yourself to make it through an eight hour work shift without replenishing your energy. Especially as you are quite likely going to be exhausted.”

“Ugh. No, you’re right. I guess I thought I might buy something there.”

“Which is both unhealthy and not economically feasible in the long run,” Rachel affirms. She opens the refrigerator and, frowning, says darkly, “I am about to do something for you that goes against my morals.”

Forehead wrinkling, Santana watches silently as Rachel takes out a carton of eggs and puts half of them in a pot of water, then sets it on the stove to boil. She shudders and, unnecessarily, washes her hands.

“Hard boiled eggs?” Santana questions.

“Yes. You’ll need protein to keep yourself functioning tonight. Just sugar won’t be sufficient, though you’ll need some of that, too.”

Santana watches with her mouth parted in surprise as Rachel makes her a cheese sandwich with lettuce and tomato, and tucks an apple, a few vegan cookies and a bottle of water in a paper bag. She sets up the coffee machine, and then asks, “Quesadilla?” Santana nods dumbly, still on the couch and feeling unable to move, and can see into the kitchen as Rachel cooks a quesadilla for her, finishing the eggs in the meantime, then brings the quesadilla to her and sets it on the coffee table. “I’ll start the coffee in about an hour so it’s hot when you have to leave.” She smiles while Santana stares.

“I just…” Santana starts. Rachel looks puzzled, so she continues, “I just don’t understand what happened to my life. I used to torture you, now we live together and you just made me lunch and dinner. A _non-vegan_ lunch and dinner.”

Rachel’s smile is a little shaky now, “I forgave you for that so long ago, Santana. I know you’re nervous about your first day” (Santana, automatically, tries to scoff, but it barely comes out) “and I want to help. Besides, you were kind enough to come to the NYADA campus with me the other day.”

Santana shrugs and lifts up a triangle of quesadilla, scooping salsa onto it, “Thanks,” she mumbles, mouth full, and Rachel beams and bounces off to her bedroom. Santana reflects that she’s rarely had friendships that weren’t also either love affairs or power struggles. And even though Rachel mentioned that she appreciated Santana’s company the other day, Santana knows that her help this evening isn’t reciprocation, and that she doesn’t expect anything in particular in return. Which…when did Berry become so much less selfish? She really doesn’t know how to deal with that at the moment.

 

_Four football fields of Chinese crap_

 

Luckily, it turns out traffic is fairly light in the evening, and she can make it to work in about fifteen minutes if the stoplights are favorable. She steps through the main entrance to the building and heads toward where her interview was, before stopping, and realizing she doesn’t know the code to get in the door.

The vague sense of anxiety and confusion—new, and unfamiliar, and totally throwing her off her game—continues. She manages to get inside when someone opens the door from the other side and get clocked in on time—after fishing around in her wallet for the string of numbers she had been given that now identify her—but then has no idea what she’s supposed to be doing. She supposes there must be some kind of orientation. She hangs around the time clock for awhile, listening as a woman with a slight accent announces that the store is closed, but that it will be open later tomorrow (it’s Sunday, Santana remembers, the hours must be different), but when, after ten minutes, no one says anything to her, she walks out of the employee’s center and approaches the first guy she sees in uniform. He’s short, white, middle-aged and, she soon learns, has a thick Brooklyn accent.

“I’m new,” she states, trying not to sound as anxious as she feels, but knowing that her eyes are wider than they ever are normally, “And I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing. Who can I talk to that’s in charge?”

The guy’s expression is sympathetic, but he quips, “In charge? Way things go around here, I dunno if anyone’s _really_ in charge.”

Santana smiles tightly, but his sense of humor doesn’t really quell her nerves, and the guy ambles back toward the rear of the store, introducing himself as Johnny while they walk. They head through some swinging double doors into—god, what is this even? Ten or so people—mostly black men ranging in age from late twenties to early fifties, she notices—are sending boxes down a conveyor belt of some kind and stacking them, seemingly randomly, onto different black plastic pallets. A tall, broad-shouldered white man is shouting something at the end of the line, and Santana looks past their heads to see a few other guys pulling boxes down from what it takes her a moment to realize is the back of a truck, absolutely packed full.

Johnny gets the attention of the tall white guy, who regards Santana intently, “I’m Stu. And you’re?”

“Santana Lopez. I was hired a few months ago, but had to move to town first. They told me this was to be my first shift.”

“Huh. They must’ve forgot to pass the message along to me,” Stu shrugs, “What did you get hired on to do?”

“…Overnight?” is the only answer Santana has.

“Hmm. You been trained?”

She shakes her head. He regards her for another minute or so, then says, “Well, I know where they need help right now. Let me introduce you to Helen.”

She follows him back out into the store, listening uncertainly as he spouts off numbers at her. They’re open late, but not all night. They’re an extremely high-volume store, and get trucks every night, sometimes multiple trucks, just to keep their shelves stocked. They’re also a high-theft store. Most of this doesn’t matter much to Santana, she just wants to know what they want her to _do_ while she’s here all night.

Eventually, over in the shampoo aisle, they find an exasperated-looking brunette, probably not much older than Santana, saying something to a tall, confused-looking guy. Stu nods and calls, “Helen? This is Santana. She’ll be helping you out,” and then walks away. Helen, still in mid-conversation with the confused guy, barely spares Santana a glance and a quick greeting, before continuing to explain something that makes _no sense_ to Santana to the guy—about sections, and tying something up, and resetting something. She stands awkwardly and watches. She notes a group of guys, probably mostly in their mid-twenties, are working on something at the end of the aisle. They’re mostly black or Latino, and some catch her eye and smile in greeting, which Santana returns somewhat awkwardly, most of her attention still focused on Helen.

Helen finally turns to her and says, her voice calmer than when she spoke to the man, “Hey. Are you new, or did you just switch to overnight, or…?”

“New. Brand new. First night,” Santana responds.

Helen nods, and Santana notices she doesn’t quite meet her eyes and her expression remains stoic through their conversation, “What did they tell you you were supposed to be doing when they hired you?”

“Overnight was the only thing they said,” Santana shrugs.

“Well, if Stu put you with me, I guess he wants you to help with the remodel.”

“Remodel?” Santana asks, knowing her voice just rose slightly in register. She knows she’s a lesbian and may have just put together an apartment’s worth of furniture, but if they’re going to ask her to do _construction_ …

When Helen does smile, it’s warm, and lingers on her face. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. We’re nearly finished, in fact. They expanded the store a bit to improve the grocery section, but had to rearrange just about everything to do it. There are contractors here to do the major stuff, but we put the shelves back together the way they’re supposed to go.”

Santana nods and follows Helen to the employee area and watches her print something out, which takes a lot longer than it should because the printer seems to be cheap and awful, and Santana enjoys the chance to sit and relax, and then they head over to the toy section to a completely empty aisle. “Luckily,” Helen says, “I’ve got a perfect training example right here.” She shows Santana the now-stapled pile of papers (she calls it a “planogram”), which contain blueprint-like pictures, and lists, and she tries to show Santana how to read the information to figure out where shelves go. And, it turns out, Santana gets it fairly quickly. She’s always been good with numbers, and with spatial reasoning, and once she learns the trick to locking the metal shelves into place, and the ways to choose the best slot to get the closest to the required height (she borrows Helen’s tape measurer for the project), she feels like she’s got it. Helen’s pleased, and graces Santana with that short-lived half-smile again, “Took the rest of my team a week to figure that out,” she mutters.

Not long afterwards, Stu’s voice hollers over the intercom that it’s time for break. Helen meets her eyes, “I’m heading to Starbucks for a coffee. Want to come along?”

Santana nods, grateful because she doesn’t know what to do during this break, and says, “I brought a coffee, but I’ll come for the ride.”

The ride turns out to be a little red truck. Santana can’t help but laugh, “Seriously? Okay, I’m from western Ohio, and these were like, as common as herpes, but here?”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” Helen responds, “You wouldn’t believe how much free and cheap furniture I was able to furnish my apartment with because I could haul it myself! Besides, it used to be my brother’s. Wasn’t gonna turn down a cheap car.”

On the way there, Santana asks, “So are you a manager?”

Helen snorts, “Nah. They’d never promote me, because I don’t tend to play nice.”

“But you seem to be in charge.”

“That’s out of necessity. I sort of am, tonight. That idiot you saw me talking to when Stu dropped you by is actually our executive manager. But he doesn’t know the first thing about the work. The regular manager is actually a pretty good guy, but he’s off tonight, and when he is here, they give him so much else to do that he has to rely on me a lot. I’m the most experienced because, unfortunately, I’ve been here for three years.” She grimaces, and the short ride to Starbucks is over.

She stands awkwardly next to Helen as she orders her iced coffee, wishing she could file her nails, that go-to nervous habit that had turned out to be such a godsend when she started sleeping with Brittany, and eventually decides to check her phone. She sees she’s gotten several messages, all spaced about an hour apart, from Rachel.

**Berry: Good luck tonight!**

**Berry: I hope it’s going okay so far!**

**Berry: They must be keeping you busy,**  
**that’s a good thing, right?**

**Berry: Have you had a chance to have**  
**lunch yet? I hope it’s good!**

 

The last message was only a few minutes ago, and she follows Helen back out to her car, composing a reply as they get in.

 

 **Tana: Thx, Berry, doin fine so far. A lil**  
**confusing at 1st. And I’ll get to eat it in a**  
**few mins!**

She notes Helen watching her, and slides her phone back into her pocket. “My roommate. Checking up on me.”

Helen’s grin is conspiratorial this time, and absolutely transforms her face, “Roommate, huh?”

Eyes widening when she’s struck by the implication, Santana exclaims, “Oh my god. Yeah, just my roommate.”

Helen’s smile sticks around a little longer as they sit in the truck and drink their coffees (Santana left her lunch in the refrigerator in the break room, and doesn’t want to go in and get it, but, probably because she’s so tired, she’s not that hungry), and it occurs to Santana all at once that they practically just came out to each other. She eyes Helen surreptitiously. There’s nothing really about her that screams gay—but then, Santana supposes there’s nothing about her, either. The uniforms would probably make anyone look gay, since it’s logical to choose loose and comfortable clothes. Helen’s long hair is out of the way in a ponytail, but her impassive face is devoid of makeup. And that knowing grin, the innuendo. She must be gay, right?

It’s a little thrilling, that the first new person she meets in New York might be gay, too.

 

_Strange you should want it the same_

 

Santana shuffles home blearily after her shift, cursing the sun that’s already risen. She’d done more of the same, working with Helen, learning everything she can. She never felt hungry, but managed to down the lunch Rachel packed her anyway, and found that she must’ve been hungry without realizing it, because it was satisfying. Helen has a dry sense of humor, and is patient, and Santana thinks her first day could’ve gone a lot worse, but _god_ , is she ever exhausted.

Pushing into the apartment, she’s surprised to see Rachel sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, her eyes fuzzy as she stares blankly at a page in a book ( _Oryx and Crake_ , which Santana thinks she’s seen at Quinn’s house before). She sets the book aside and smiles, and Santana can’t help but raise her eyebrows. “What are you doing awake?”

Rachel smiles, “Well, this is just about my normal wake-up time, although I will be getting a bit more sleep today.”

Frowning, Santana remembers that her phone had been vibrating earlier, but she was too busy to check it. She brings it out now and sees she has four messages from Rachel.

 

 **Berry: I’m glad it’s going okay! I hope**  
**you enjoy the lunch.**

**Berry: Just checking in!**

**Berry: It’s actually a relief you’re not**  
**responding, it must mean it’s not awful.**

**Berry: Only an hour and a half left! You**  
**can do it!**

Santana looks up. “Did you seriously wake up every hour to text me?”

Licking her lips uncertainly, Rachel simply responds, “Yep.”

Santana’s eyes are suddenly no longer bleary, and they’re boring into Rachel’s. “Why?”

Rachel sweeps her bangs out of her eyes and frowns, “I was just trying to be supportive, Santana.”

“No, no,” Santana starts, “I’m just…I don’t know how to take you being so…has anyone ever told you you’re incredibly selfless?”

Her laugh is loud. “You would be the first.”

“You are.” Santana darts her eyes away, abruptly awkward, “You’re a good person, Rachel.”

“It’s not really selfless when it’s me trying to cultivate a deep and lasting friendship between us,” Rachel uncertainly intones.

Santana chuckles wearily, dropping her eyes in an uncomfortable feeling of warmth at Rachel’s admission, staring at her nails just to have something to focus on. “Berry. You’re…we’re cool. Seriously. Now go to bed. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

Smiling and walking back to her room, trailing her blanket behind her, Rachel breathes, “Welcome home, Santana.”

Her own smile erupting despite her exhaustion, Santana closes her door, turns on her window air conditioner (they’d just acquired three from Craigslist yesterday, finding no other way to deal with an apartment without central air), and gets ready for bed.

 

_Things have gotten closer to the sun_

 

The first thing Santana’s sure of when she wakes up is that she needs thicker curtains. Despite her exhaustion, it took her _way_ too long to fall asleep. She glances at the clock. 2pm, and she feels awake. She sighs. That probably means about six hours of sleep, but oh well.

When she shuffles out of her room, she hears voices, but doesn’t even try to comprehend them yet. Approaching the coffee pot, she discovers a little note on a yellow star sticky note. “Just push on,” says the note, and she does so, hearing the machine whir and drip immediately. She smiles, and glances over her shoulder to thank Rachel, to find her speaking animatedly to her laptop.

Rachel glances up and exclaims, “Good morning, Santana! Or, good afternoon! Good morning?”

She chuckles, “Morning, Berry. Thanks for the coffee.”

Rachel lifts her laptop and spins it around, “Say hi to Quinn!”

Santana blinks at the image of a smiling Quinn taking up Rachel’s laptop screen, “Morning, Q,” she manages a tired smile.

“Looking a little rough there, San,” Quinn smirks, but her tone is gentle, “Rough night?”

“Coulda been worse,” Santana shrugs.

“That’s good. It’s good to see you, even looking like that.”

Santana flips her off, which makes Quinn laugh, and Rachel turns the laptop back around to continue chattering away with Quinn. Santana tunes them out as she pours herself some Cheerios—god, she’s a walking pun—and shuffles into the living room to turn on her laptop while she waits for her coffee to finish. There’s not nearly enough room in the kitchenette for a table, and they’ve agreed, instead of using up common room space on a dining room table, to generally eat in the living room at the coffee table.

When she sets her breakfast down on the coffee table and really settles on the couch perpendicular to Rachel’s armchair to eat it, she can’t help but overhear their conversation.

“I’ve got about a week until orientation, and I’m _bored_ ,” Rachel complains.

Quinn husks a laugh, “Rachel, how can you be bored in _New York_?” she asks sarcastically.

Rachel laughs with her (and god, Santana never really noticed that Rachel and Quinn were the giggle queens, but she supposes her caffeine headache makes things like that stand out), and trills, “but that’s just it! There’s so much that it’s overwhelming! And I don’t want to do it all alone.”

A hum of agreement, then Quinn suggests, “You could watch Buffy? I know we got through a bit of it together this summer, but I’m on the fifth season now, and I promise it’s actually really good. And actually,” Quinn’s voice gets louder, “Santana should really watch it, too!”

Santana glances up and Rachel tilts her laptop so that she and Quinn regard each other again. Santana attempts an eyebrow raise at Quinn, who mirrors it, and scoffs, “Okay, what the fuck? Why in the world would a geeky show from the 90s interest me?”

Quinn smirks, “Other than the fact that it’s actually really smart and entertaining, there’s the whole fact that it’s apparently like a big part of lesbian culture.”

“And how would you know that?” Santana teases, just to watch Quinn be uncomfortable.

To her disappointment, Quinn just rolls her eyes and says sarcastically, “The internet holds a lot of information.”

She snorts, “Okay, the fact that you’re looking at Buffy Tumblrs or whatever is fucking hilarious. Please, do let Yale _try_ to make you geekier. But whatever. I guess I’ll give it a shot. Sarah Michelle Gellar was kinda hot back then, right? That was like Cruel Intentions era?”

It’s Quinn’s turn to snort, “You watched Cruel Intentions?”

“Brittany wanted to watch the girl kiss!” Santana defends, “Kind of a formative moment for me,” she adds petulantly, subsequently cursing herself for being tired enough to admit that.

“Whatever,” Quinn’s got a glint in her eye, and Santana’s relieved that she lets it go, and then turns her head, as if trying to see Rachel, “So, Rach, there you go! Netflix with Santana!”

Rachel turns the laptop back around the beam at Quinn. “A wonderful idea! We’ll just have to figure out a way to comfortably watch on my laptop.”

“Okay, Berry,” Santana interrupts, “Much as I _sort of_ like you, and much as I’m willing to give this show a shot, I’m just gonna go ahead and say that I’m not down with snuggling on the couch and watching Buffy with you.”

Rachel sighs and addresses Quinn, “See what I have to live with?”

Quinn chuckles, “Don’t worry, Rachel. I’ve got a plan.”

Spending breakfast chatting with her roommate and their apparently mutual best friend did improve Santana’s mood, and she went to work feeling much more confident, despite her lack of sleep. Santana’s work is definitely not fun, but she pretty much hangs out with Helen for the whole shift, which does help. They haven’t talked any more about the innuendo in the truck, but Santana finds herself curious about the other girl anyway.

The week continues along that same vein: Santana wakes up, generally finds Rachel in the living room, they chat a bit, Rachel respectfully waits until Santana is fully awake before practicing her scales in her room. Santana, finding she has little energy or desire to do much else, spends too much time on her laptop, then she and Rachel will throw together something for dinner and eat together before Santana heads off for work. Her schedule seems to be Sunday night through Thursday, which is nice because she’ll have the weekend off, sort of. She gets home, often Rachel is just waking up (sometimes she’s eating breakfast, sometimes Santana hears the whir of the elliptical in her room).

When Santana wakes up early in the afternoon on Friday, it’s because she hears the apartment’s buzzer. She groans. That fucker is loud if she can hear it over her air conditioner.

Automatically, she shuffles out of her bedroom, only to find Rachel already speaking into it, and heading out the door. Not sure what else to do, she stands awkwardly by the door until Rachel reappears with a package in her arms, looking puzzled. “It’s not from an address I know…do you think it’s a mail bomb?”

Santana snorts rudely, “Of course not, Berry. Just open it.” She goes to her room and gets one of the box cutters she uses at work and hands it to Rachel. Rachel opens it very cautiously, and slowly lifts the flaps to reveal a jumble of packing peanuts and a rectangular object, wrapped up in newspaper and plastic bags. She cuts through it and gasps when she pulls out a white object…Santana’s eyebrows lift. A Wii?

Rachel meets her eyes, and they regard each other with mirrored bemusement.  She reaches into the box and extracts a few other objects, also wrapped up securely, and finally a little envelope. She opens it and clears her throat, reading:

“To Ms. Berry. I’ve been instructed to inform you that I am sending this as a surprise gift courtesy of your friend Ms. Fabray. I apologize if the package was mysterious or alarming to you. If you have any issues with the system, don’t hesitate to have Ms. Fabray contact me.”

Rachel looks up at Santana again, this time with her mouth hanging slightly open. She shakes her head and reaches for her phone on the coffee table. Santana moves over to the kitchen to brew coffee, knowing she’s irrevocably awake now. She leans against the couch and listens as Rachel speaks to Quinn.

“Quinn, I just got the package,” Rachel is speaking softly, “How did you…?” Santana can’t quite hear Quinn’s response, but Rachel nods very slowly and her face relaxes slightly, “Ooooh. Ebay. Well, that makes the mysterious package a _little_ less ominous. I was wondering how in the world you knew someone in Oregon who was getting rid of a Wii.” She pauses, “But why?” Quinn’s response makes a wide smile break out onto Rachel’s face. “You are literally crazy, Ms. Fabray,” she quips lightly, “I can’t believe you sometimes. Thank you so much, Quinn.”

Catching Santana’s curious eye, Rachel tilts her phone to say, “Quinn bought us a Wii so we can watch Netflix together! She promises it wasn’t expensive because she bought it used.”

“Gee, thanks, Q!” Santana shouts with mock frustration, “Now I don’t have any excuse not to watch that damn show!”

This time she does hear Quinn through the phone, “You’re welcome, bitch!”

Rachel slides the phone back into place and voices softly, “Seriously, thank you, Quinn. You’re…too good to me sometimes.”

Santana wanders away to check her coffee. The breathiness in Rachel’s voice is almost intimate, and Santana feels like she’s intruding on the conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Modest Mouse, “Whale Song,” Blood Diamonds, “Dreams,” The Velvet Underground, “Venus in Furs” (DeVotchKa does a very different, but interesting, cover), The Reverend Peyton’s Big Damn Band, “Walmart Killed The Country Store,” Gem Club, “Breakers,” and The Xx, “Crystalized.”
> 
> Original Character guide:  
> Helen: Introduced this chapter  
> Stu: Introduced this chapter


	8. Funny how secrets travel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A few notes with this update. First, we’ll be checking back in at McKinley and therefore seeing a few more points of view. Second, from here on out the story is not strictly chronological; for narrative purposes it’s not convenient to make sure adjacent chapters are exactly chronological, especially with how many settings our characters currently inhabit, but I’ll always try to give hints at the beginning of a chapter about the time frame. Third, this installment also earns the M rating for Brittana content. And fourth, this update does contain some mild Buffy spoilers.

_Funny how secrets travel_

 

She’s not naturally a follower; even when Quinn was head cheerleader, she was always waiting for her chance to topple her. But at work, Santana sticks closely by Helen. She’s never been in an environment where she feels so out of her depth, and luckily, Helen is still technically training her and they discover immediately that they have a particular simpatico that makes working together quite easy, so it doesn’t seem weird for them to spend a lot of the shift together. However, she does notice the other workers. As a woman of color from western Ohio, Santana can’t help but notice right away that everyone in charge, at least overnight, is male, all but two are white, and almost all the regular employees are black or Hispanic. In fact, Johnny, the first guy she talked to, might be the only white man who is not a manager. There are maybe two other white women besides Helen, but Santana’s never really talked to them—they’re over in softlines, the clothing section, which looks horrendous and confusing. While not being a minority for the first time in her life is a little…thrilling, she also feels vaguely uncomfortable working under a bunch of white guys.

It’s obvious a lot of the guys are from the city, but she also has realized she works with a lot of Haitians and, to her delight, Puerto Ricans. The familiar accent lilting in her ears actually makes her smile, though she notices that a lot of the Spanish speaking stops when people see her, and they stare questioningly.

Until, finally, one day toward the end of her second week, an older Puerto Rican seems to recognize a look of comprehension on her face as she walks into a conversation and asks her, in Spanish, if she’s Puerto Rican, and Santana responds yes, partly. Then another guy, only slightly younger, asks if she’s single. Everyone who understands erupts into laughter, and Santana fixes him with her best bitch stare and, fumbling with the words slightly and switching to English for a few, tells him she’s not and that she doesn’t date anybody with bigger breasts than hers anyway (which is technically true), which results in hoots of laughter and some teasing of the guy, who takes it good-naturedly.

Helen’s watching with interest, and asks, “My Spanish pretty much left my head after high school, what was that about?”

Santana shrugs, “Dude asked me out, I told him off. Mine’s a bit rusty, too.”

Helen nods, “I didn’t want to assume, but did you grow up speaking Spanish?”

“A bit,” Santana replies. In truth, her father had been a big proponent of assimilation, so by the time Santana had started babbling, he’d decreed that he and her mother would only speak English in the house. Santana absorbed most of her Spanish from her _abuela_ , which explains why most of her command of the language is insults and anger; her grandmother’s tough-love style of childcare had certainly left its mark. In fact, she’d taken Spanish in high school as a way to try to get back in touch with her roots, but Mr. Schue had been such a deplorable teacher that four years later, she can barely hold a conversation (in fact, when Mr. Martinez had taken over halfway through her Senior year, he’d held back laughter at the class’s attempts at conversational Spanish and pretty much spent the rest of the year teaching Spanish 1). So while she understands most Spanish that is spoken to her, the language to reply sometimes escapes her.

But from that point on, Santana finds herself shouting and joking in Spanish with some of the other Hispanic workers, most of whom she doesn’t work closely with—the other guys working the remodel mostly stick with English. For awhile, the language is mostly flirtatious, and she enjoys telling them off—the power of owning her sexuality really never gets old—but by the end of her third week, the guys begin making jokes that it takes her some time to get—they’re innuendos, about her and Helen. Santana’s response falters.

When they’re sitting together in Helen’s truck, both clutching Starbucks, Santana can’t keep silent. “The guys are…getting weird. Making comments about you and I.”

Helen’s eyebrows rise. “Only a matter of time when you hang out with the ‘store lesbian’ I guess,” she drawls dryly, making appropriate finger quotes, “I wish I could say this was the first time this has happened to me.” Helen glances at her uncertainly, “Besides, the rumor that started the day you arrived was that you lived with your girlfriend.”

Santana feels a familiar sense of panic, of her control being ripped out of her hands; she can’t believe this is happening _again_ , and barks anxiously, “What the fuck?! Did you tell someone about the ‘roommate’ conversation we had?!”

“God, no!” Helen answers immediately, blue eyes wide. “I was seriously just teasing you. I have a friend who works dayside and when I saw him that morning and mentioned we had someone new on remodel who might actually be a good worker, he said, ‘Oh, right! I heard about Santana! Lives with her girlfriend.’ I told him I was pretty sure you didn’t, but whoever he heard it from had already spread it everywhere. Rumor mill is fast here.”

Santana’s heart is pounding, while Helen eyes her uncertainly. Santana looks away. She can’t come up with an explanation except, “I listed Rachel—my roommate—as my emergency contact when I filled out my paperwork. I guess someone assumed.” She sighs and snorts at the same time, “I wasn’t aware I came off as that fucking gay,” she laments slightly.

Helen laughs a little, “Well, my gaydar is pretty much broken and you tripped mine. Sorry.”

There’s silence and then Santana asks, “So what do we do about these rumors?”

A shrug, “Let them run their course. Denying them just makes people more interested, and for some reason my imagined sex life interests them greatly.” A pause, “Maybe this will get some of the guys off your back. Renaldo was pumping me for information about you the other day. I just played dumb, but he’s obviously into you.”

And that, Santana supposes, could be the one benefit of the rumor mill.

 

_Something that’s shimmering and white leads you here_

 

Rachel’s classes have started—she’d actually started orientation the afternoon the package from Quinn had arrived, and her classes had started that Monday—but Santana has to admit that with starting her first full-time job and getting used to being up all night that she hasn’t been paying much attention to Rachel’s school. Rachel insisted they sync schedules on Google Calendar, so Santana knows that she has a freshman lecture on Monday mornings, two regular morning classes that meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays and a night class on Tuesdays and one on Wednesdays, which means that they mostly have weekends off together—although Rachel spent the weekend that just passed in New Haven, and Santana mostly spent hers sleeping, the first weekend after Rachel’s classes Rachel spent trying to make Santana watch _Buffy_ with her, which Santana feigned greater exhaustion than was true to get out of. She spent as much of the night as she could talking to Brittany instead. Brittany did end up making Head Cheerio, and so is frequently busy and exhausted, much like Santana, but they text multiple times a day. Santana reflects that the one good thing to come from Brittany dating Artie was that she got much better with computers; Brittany figured out how to delay sending emails, so during Santana’s work shifts, she’ll get a few random emails through the night, some with pictures of Brittany, telling her how much she loves and misses her. It helps.

Santana’s glad she has that air conditioner, not only because it makes sleeping during the heat of the day even possible, but because it means Rachel working out on her elliptical in the mornings doesn’t wake her up. Although Rachel attempting to run her scales before class causes Santana to storm out of her room and lose her temper. That afternoon, after she apologizes to an absurdly forgiving Rachel for swearing at her in Spanish for a full minute, they agree that Rachel will use either a study room on campus or the laundry room in the basement to practice her scales so that Santana can sleep.

It’s nearing the middle of the month, though, and Santana is staring at her bank account online. She can pay her rent, but kind of just barely, because she’s only gotten one paycheck, and she hopes that utility bills can give her a chance to breathe, but as she runs the numbers, she realizes that even if she’d been paid more, it would be hard. She vaguely remembers from Senior year economics class that her teacher said one’s rent should only be about a quarter to a third of one’s monthly income, and Santana’s rent is like at least half hers.

Rachel’s fathers are paying her rent, for as long as her grades are good, and she has a seven hour a week student work/study job at her school’s library to help pay for other things, like food, utilities and all kinds of school supplies (though she’s said that once she gets the hang of her schedule she’ll definitely have to find a second job).

There’s also the fact that Sam’s birthday passed at the beginning of September, and at Rachel’s insistence, they’d sent him a card with $40 tucked in it. Which is not that much, but Santana has a feeling little extra things like this will be happening quite frequently—and in fact, kind of already had, what with the $125 they’d shelled out for those three used air conditioners.

So by the time the month is more than half over, when Santana scrapes by on the rent on the 15th, and they send their utility payments the next week (internet and electricity are due annoyingly close together) at the last possible moment after Rachel waits for a paycheck and Santana dips into the money her mother gave her. Santana realizes she can barely have a breather because her next paycheck is going to go entirely to rent. She feels so anxious that she tells Rachel’s she’s just having a salad for dinner.

Almost a week later, Santana wakes up around four-thirty (she’s getting better at sleeping in, but is starting to wonder if she isn’t sleeping _too_ much) and goes to start her coffee, and it takes her a moment to realize that Rachel is standing at the edge of the kitchenette, watching her. “What?” she grumps, honestly trying not to be rude.

“Please come talk to me after you’ve made your coffee?” Rachel requests, her eyes flicking down.

“Don’t I usually?” Santana queries, studying her face and noting a sense of anxiety, but gets no response, so shrugs and pours herself some cereal.

When she settles on the couch with her breakfast and turns on her laptop, she then tilts her head to regard Rachel, who is seated in the armchair with her hands folded in her lap. Santana lifts her eyebrows in tacit encouragement.

Rachel takes a breath and begins, “I spoke with Kurt earlier this week.” At her pause, Santana’s mind races. God, what could this mean? Did something happen with Finn? Is Rachel getting back together with Finn? Are Kurt and Blaine okay? She feels her brow furrow with worry, and Rachel continues, her voice picking up speed like a truck barreling downhill, “Please, don’t fret, it’s not bad, I don’t believe anyway. He wishes to come to New York and I told him that perhaps you and I would be amenable to a third roommate.”

“You…want Kurt to move in with us?” Santana interprets slowly.

Rachel ducks her head, “I know that you and I had trouble with finances this month, and I don’t believe that will improve. I suppose that until we moved here and really got a feel for how expensive everything is, we really couldn’t have known what it would be like. And while we both have parents to support us, I know that I would prefer to rely on them as minimally as possible.”

“I agree, but…” Santana starts, and frown. “So, what, I doubt we’re just gonna let Kurt crash on the couch.”

“I thought that perhaps you and I could share my room,” Rachel responds, going on quickly, “With our schedules, we would actually rarely be in it at the same time, and I’m sure if either of us had a visitor with which we would like to perform erotic activities, that you and I could make arrangements. And I thought, there’s room in the living room, I can move my elliptical and perhaps my desk out here, and it may be a little tight, but I believe we could fit your bed, bedside table and dresser in the room. And if you need more closet space than what’s left in mine, there’s that half closet in the hall that we could empty out and give to you.”

Santana is frowning through her explanation, but for some reason, when she imagines Kurt sitting on the couch next to her in a bathrobe, his hair in disarray, she can’t help but smile. And the idea that finances will be less of a burden, well… “Actually, I think we could make this work, Berry.”

Rachel lifts large, dark eyes to hers, “Really?” she asks quietly.

“Sure. Like you said, we won’t be in there at the same time much, so I’ll probably never have to hear you snore.”

“I do not snore,” Rachel huffs, and Santana laughs, honestly having no idea if she does or not, but somehow, she’s alright with finding out. “Well, Kurt says he probably won’t come up until shortly after Blaine’s birthday in early October. But that means he’ll be here in time to help with next month’s rent! So that’s a relief.” Santana nods her agreement, her shoulders relaxing visibly.

“Oh!” Rachel continues, “And Quinn is visiting this weekend! She’ll be in town tomorrow afternoon!” She grins and hops up out of her armchair.

Santana tries to smile, “Great,” she drawls. She picks up her phone.

 

**Tana: Thx for telling me ur visiting this**  
 **weekend, bitch.**

It’s a few minutes before she gets a response.

 

**Q: Well, considering Rach invited me,**  
 **and you didn’t, I could only assume those**  
 **who cared knew. Can’t wait to see you**  
 **either, bitch! :)**

And, well, that was Quinn. Making Santana smile with an insult. Santana forgives her immediately and actually can’t wait to see her.

 

_Think of blue eyes of ourselves_

 

Santana works that night, so by the time she wakes up around four the next day, Quinn is already there. In fact, Santana is surprised she slept through the noise the giggle queens are making, even with her air conditioner on “fan” setting as white noise.

She sees that Rachel has already started coffee for her and she feels warm with gratitude. There’s a Cheerios duffle and a messenger bag heaped on the floor of the living room, so presumably, Quinn has only just arrived. Rachel and Quinn are sitting on the couch together, flipping through the manila folder of takeout menus. Santana reaching for a bowl for cereal seems to alert them to her presence, and Quinn grins and approaches her.

“It’s too early for this shit,” Santana gripes as Quinn wraps her in a hug, but she squeezes back and her face relaxes in contentment, barely registering Rachel huffing and reprimanding her for her foul language.

Quinn pulls back and raises her eyebrow at Santana; Santana instantly recognizes it as Quinn’s challenging eyebrow and automatically attempts to defiantly raise her own. Quinn’s lip twitches, “So. Rachel tells me that the lovely Wii I purchased for you has gone completely unused because _someone_ still refuses to watch _Buffy_.”

Santana sighs, “Didn’t I just say how early it is?” She turns away to start pouring cereal.

“Well, don’t worry, _S_ ,” Quinn continues mockingly, “Because tonight you’ll have your chance. Rach and I are both exhausted from our weeks and don’t really want to leave your apartment tonight, so we’re going to stay in, order takeout, and have a _Buffy_ marathon. And since I know your nocturnal ass is going to be up all night, we’re starting at the beginning, just for you!”

Santana faces her incredulously, “Did you really just HBIC me in my own home? And over a geeky-ass 90s show?” She sighs and chuckles at the same time, “I’m looking back at my life choices and I have no clue how I ended up here.”

Quinn grins, “I’m so glad you see it my way! Now, help us choose what takeout to order in a few hours!”

“I’m just _now_ eating breakfast!” Santana gripes in response, but when she sits in the armchair with her breakfast a moment later, she finds herself requesting Thai. Whatever.

They give Quinn a brief tour of the apartment—Rachel had wanted to wait until Santana was awake for that. There’s not much to see, though Santana is pretty proud of the living room, with the mixture of posters and art on the walls that reflect both of them (for instance, on one wall, a _Rent_ show poster next to a _Vertigo_ film poster next to Amy Winehouse next to Ella Fitzgerald next to a framed photo of the Senior year Glee club). But Rachel manages to take ten minutes by explaining how she plans to change the layout of her bedroom for when it becomes her and Santana’s bedroom. Quinn smiles indulgently and offers suggestions of her own, even going so far as to offer help moving furniture, since Rachel seems eager to start right away. Santana rolls her eyes, but not maliciously, and goes to the living room to text Britt.

 

**Tana: About to spend the weekend with**  
 **QnR being buddy-buddy. Also they’re**  
 **gonna make me watch Buffy. I really**  
 **fucking miss you right now. These two**  
 **were so much easier to deal w when u**  
 **were there too.**

**Britt-Britt: Aww san u love them. You’ll**  
 **have fun! But call me latr cause I’ve got**  
 **somethin to show u**

And included in the text is a picture—Brittany’s clearly topless, wearing just a sly smirk, but the picture cuts off just before her breasts. She can see her collarbones—the ones she’s nipped god knows how many times—the smooth expanse of Brittany’s pale, glorious chest, the little muscular ridges of her shoulders, her long neck…

She feels the heat spiral through her chest and guts. “Christ,” Santana groans, just as Rachel and Quinn walk back into the living room. Santana hurriedly closes the picture on her phone and reaches for her laptop, willing her body to cool down, and refuses to look at either of them. She forces her eyes to be half-lidded, hoping she appears nonchalant, bored, or perhaps still tired. She thinks they both glance at her with amusement, but she forces herself to pay them no attention. When enough time has passed that she feels like it won’t implicate anything, she stands and stretches exaggeratedly and heads for the shower. Where she turns the water on cold, dwelling on the picture, and what she’s going to do on the phone with Brittany tonight.

They do eventually order Thai and start season 1 of _Buffy_. Santana stays on the armchair, pushing it back to recline, and props her feet up. She keeps her laptop on her lap, and at Quinn and Rachel’s frustrated expressions says, “What? If it’s fucking boring, I’m only gonna half watch it.”

Rachel giggles as she attempts to work the Wiimote, the white hand flying all over the screen as she sorts through the Netflix menus to find _Buffy_. When it starts playing, she scoots closer to Quinn. “It feels weird to be watching this without sitting close together,” she murmurs, and to Santana’s surprise, Quinn grins and nods, and they don’t… _quite_ cuddle, but they are sitting close.

And, well. Santana has to admit the show keeps her attention. At first it’s because of the clothes—Santana is crying laughing at the 90s sense of style through, like, the entire first episode, at least until the point when Willow seems to be in trouble. For whatever reason, she likes Willow. Something about her cute naiveté and quiet intelligence reminds her of Brittany. Eventually she sets her laptop aside. She still laughs several more times, mostly at the lame special effects and the really obvious stunt doubles, and mutters a few times, “Why are we watching a show nearly as old as we are?” They get through about half of the first season before it looks like Quinn and Rachel are about to fall asleep on one another.

“Well, that was better than I expected,” Santana admits. “And Willow’s cute, I’d watch just for her.”

Rachel chuckles and teases, “That’s funny, Santana, because I identify a lot with Willow.”

Santana huffs and rolls her eyes, “Whatever. It’s not like her clothes are any worse than anyone else’s on this show, so I don’t see the resemblance, Berry. She makes me think of Brittany,” she defends. Rachel smirks, completely ignoring the slight.

Quinn smiles distantly, “I always identified with Buffy.”

“Really?” Rachel asks, her expression open and interested.

“Yeah,” Quinn breathes. “It’s just…she has all these expectations thrust on her, and she’s just a kid in high school, you know?” Santana and Rachel both stare, but the moment their expressions start to really turn sympathetic, Quinn turns to Santana and says, “But you’re totally Cordelia.”

“Oh, fuck off, I’m ten times more hilarious,” Santana laughs. She has to admit, though, that she may have filed away that “what is your childhood trauma?” line for future use.

“No, really,” Quinn insists, “Cordelia gets a lot more interesting as the show goes on, and the little bit I’ve seen of the spinoff, she continues to get interesting. She’s, you know. Bitchy on the outside, squishy on the inside.”

“Oh what _ever_ ,” Santana groans, “Anyway, you guys are about to drop off, and I’ve gots to go call Britts.”

“See my point?” Quinn smirks.

“Santana, wait,” Rachel says. She takes a breath, “How is Brittany?”

Santana shrugs, “She’s fine. Working hard. Tina’s been helping her a lot with schoolwork. They’re also having a friendly competition to see who’s gonna be Glee captain—Schue has dropped the ball already by not having a captain yet.”

Rachel bites her lip, “This is going to be an extremely awkward segue, but it’s been on my mind for a long time. I just…when Noah was at risk of failing out, the guys all did a ‘bro’ cram session for him so he would pass, and I just wanted to say I’m really sorry we never got all the Glee girls together to do the same for Brittany. She doesn’t deserve to have the school system fail her so epically like that.”

Santana shrugs a little uncomfortably, “Well, I think Britts made peace with it long before she let anyone know what was happening. I didn’t even know. And besides, everyone had their own shit going on, like major shit, and the guys? I mean, most of them weren’t graduating and those that did barely had future plans. They had the time for that shit, the girls really didn’t, and honestly, the Glee girls spent far too much time trying to out-bitch each other to really do something like that.”

Quinn shifts uncomfortably, but Rachel looks fondly nostalgic, “Well, I don’t know. We all got together to do that song to support you when you came out. Er. Were outed,” she amends with a wince.

Santana relaxes into a similar nostalgic expression at the memory, “Yeah, I guess you’re right. That was kinda nice. Though, how the fuck did we end up singing that song? I’d kinda forgotten it’s about bicurious chicks until we agreed on it.”

“I thought Tina meant the Jill Sobule song when she suggested it,” Quinn admits quietly. Santana catches Rachel’s slightly surprised expression, and she herself stares at Quinn in confusion. “What?” Quinn asks, almost defensively, when she notices.

“I dunno, Q, but I think you might’ve just outgayed me, because I don’t know what the fuck song you’re talking about. Which, I really never thought _you_ , of all people, would ever outgay me. Congratulations.”

“Bitch. Expand your musical horizons sometime,” Quinn snarks.

“Oh you did not just say that. Have you seen my iPod?”

“Okay!” Rachel cuts in, “I think we can all agree that as former Glee club members, we all have vastly eclectic musical tastes. Now, I do think Quinn and I are exhausted, and Santana, please go call your girlfriend. Tell her we say hello!”

Santana chuckles darkly, “Berry, I’m not going to be saying your name at all during this conversation, if you know what I mean.” Her grin widens when she notes Rachel’s blush; Quinn remains unfazed, merely shaking her head.

She heads into her bedroom, dialing Brittany as she goes and tucking her iPhone’s earbuds in—they’re easier to use in times like this than cradling the phone with one hand. When Brittany answers, she responds, “Hey, baby,” in the lowest purr she can manage.

“Hi,” Brittany greets again, softly, a little breathlessly. Santana feels her face relax into a lazy smirk. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this, for sure. They text and email all the time—and okay, it’s occasionally sexting—but talking on the phone is maybe only twice a week, when Santana’s awake and not at work and Brittany isn’t completely wiped out from school and cheerleading. And usually, their phone calls turn to this, but Santana knows this time not to waste time with pleasantries and I miss yous. They haven’t seen each other in over a month at this point and the need is growing greater all the time.

And because she knows how this goes, Santana keeps the purr in her voice as she asks, “Is Lord Tubbington in the room?”

“No,” Brittany responds, her voice still soft, “I kicked him out while I was answering the phone. He knows he’s not allowed to watch.” And _god_ , they’re talking about Brittany’s _cat_ , and there’s nothing at all sexy about that, but just knowing what it means, and what’s to come, Santana feels her abs clench in arousal. “What are you wearing?” Brittany asks sweetly, and Santana’s body clenches harder.

“Um,” in truth, she’s wearing what she calls pajamas, but they’re more like her lounging-around-the-apartment clothes: a tank top and boxers. This is new, as she sleeps naked and never really owned pajamas in high school, because she would be fully dressed each morning before leaving her bedroom. “Tank top and boxers. Both green.” She tries to keep her voice low, but there’s just no way to make that sound sexy.

Apparently she’s wrong, because Brittany’s voice has an appreciative lilt to it as she says, “Boxers? Sexy, San.”

Santana finds herself chuckling in response, “What about you?”

“Cat ears. And…that’s it,” Brittany keeps her voice light, and it really _shouldn’t_ but that casual tone of Brittany’s _does_ things to her when she says things like this. And the cat ears…they’re almost a weird, sexy inside joke, stemming, Santana is pretty sure, from the time Brittany took Santana calling her a sex kitten a little too literally. She’s pretty sure it’s not evidence of any kind of furry or whatever leanings on Brittany’s part, but even if Brittany were a furry, she knows she’d love her anyway, and she pushes thoughts like this out of her mind. Brittany in a fur suit is not what she wants to be imagining right now, and she flashes back to the picture Brittany sent her earlier, her hand running lightly up and down her own thigh.

“Mmm,” she sighs in response, “That picture, Britt. God…if I were there right now I’d be—”

“Painting my chest with your tongue?” Brittany asks bluntly, and Santana can hear the smirk in her voice, and it just makes her groan a little.

“Yeah,” Santana pants, her hands skating up her body to her own chest, fingers trailing lightly.

“San,” Brittany whispers, “Can I see you?”

“Yeah, baby,” Santana husks, and they both turn on Facetime and stare at each other. Santana props her phone up on the pillow next to her and turns on her side, pretending Brittany is next to her in bed—by the looks of it, Brittany is doing the same thing. She’s taking in the light flush on Brittany’s face that sweeps down to that same smooth expanse of chest Santana had been gasping over earlier, with its little ridges of muscle and rib just visible, the way her normally bright blue eyes are dark with pupil, the way her lips are parted slightly.

Sometimes, they like words. Sometimes, it’s easier to just see each other in their minds as they talk each other through their orgasms. But sometimes, Santana needs real eye contact, and often, Brittany needs it just as much.

So she meets Brittany’s eye as she purposefully trails her hand down her body to cup her breasts. Brittany can’t see her hands, but she can see Santana’s face. Santana knows her head has tipped back and she’s moaned lightly. It’s almost theatrical, she knows, but there’s always some theatrics in long-distance sex. She opens her eyes to look at Brittany. Her eyes have gone half-lidded, and from the motions on Brittany’s shoulders, she’s sure Brittany is running hands up and down her body.

But Brittany’s picture has been in her mind all day, and Brittany’s clearly been anticipating this all day herself, so Santana doesn’t fuck around much longer. She slides her left hand into her boxers, stilling it there, and murmuring, “Would you like to see where my hand is?”

Brittany gasps and nods, and Santana tilts the phone down to where her hand is lightly resting against her thigh inside her boxers, before deliberately moving her hand to trail down to where wetness has been gathering. Brittany moans, and the way it travels straight through her earbuds to her ear, makes her gasp in response, almost anticipating the bite to her earlobe that would surely follow if Brittany were _actually_ right there by her ear…

It’s funny, how even though she’s fully clothed, the sight of her turns Brittany on. She thinks it has something to do with how often they’ve fucked fully clothed, back when the idea of actually _touching_ was too frightening for Santana to even consider it, and they’d scissored with rough thrusts through their spanks, their Cheerios skirts pushed up, their hands searching desperately to pinch nipples through Cheerios tops and bras; and how even after Santana stopped freaking the _fuck_ out about how much she loved the sex, how sometimes the best way to get off was the rub against one another’s thighs, through jeans or sweats or any other material, until they came, breathing each others’ air.

She brings the phone back up to her pillow and she moves her hand slowly, smoothing wetness around herself gently, watching Brittany’s eyes again. “What are you doing, Brittany?” Her voice is half a groan, part question, part authoritative demand, and she slides the arm under her body up her shirt with some difficulty to stroke a nipple.

But Brittany knows what she means, and she tilts her own phone so that Santana can watch as one of Brittany’s hands trails down, sliding down her sternum, tracing the swell of a breast as it passes, then rubs lovingly at perfect abs—Santana salivates like a fucking Pavlovian dog—before it reaches a perfect, pink pussy, damn near glistening in the soft light, sliding almost immediately to cover it, though not to hide it, and Santana watches two fingers slide neatly inside, and she can’t even really _see_ it, but…

“Jesus _fuck_ , Britts,” she gasps, her hips jerking without rhythm as she slides against her clit more deliberately, feeling herself get wetter as if those long, strong fingers had just slipped into _her_ instead…

Brittany brings the phone back up and Santana takes in her face, her eyes closed, her lips parted a little further as little gasps make their way out of her mouth. She opens her eyes and tilts her head forward to regard Santana, and their eyes lock.

There’s no need for any more words, or any more tilting of the phone, as they just watch each other’s faces. Santana bites her lip hard to keep from moaning so loudly she’s afraid Rachel and Quinn will be able to hear it even over the air conditioner acting as a fan in her room, and Brittany licks her lips, which are getting dry from the puffs of air she keeps expelling as she gasps and moans. It only takes a few minutes, until…

“San, I’m—” Brittany gasps, the syllable sounding stuck in her throat as her eyes close and her head tilts back, and Santana can see her throat working as it expels little mewling gasps and cries.

“ _Fuck_ , Brittany,” Santana chokes out in return, feeling her body begin to quake, and her fingers slip almost uselessly against her clit, which is _so wet_ , almost losing their focus in the shuddering of her body, and Santana’s eyes slip shut as she curls forward into herself, rocking and shaking and releasing a long, low moan.

She opens her eyes blearily to see Brittany regarding her with a sweet smile as she sucks on her fingers, and Santana easily returns the smile, cleaning her own, wishing her lips could be occupied kissing the beautiful girl instead. She licks her lips as she removes her fingers, and Brittany seems to understand, and her blue eyes twinkle, and for a just a moment, it’s _okay_ that they’re so far away. And Santana reads aloud softly from _Through the Looking Glass_ until Brittany falls asleep.

 

_You’re a thousand things, you can fly with one wing_

 

But for the absence of Santana, it would be the perfect year.

She’s Head Cheerleader—there really was no contest, with Santana, Quinn and Becky all having graduated. And she and Tina are well on their way to becoming Glee co-captains; she’s confident their opposition, Artie and Blaine, don’t stand a chance. And speaking of Tina, subjects seem to make so much more sense when Tina explains them to her. She’s also getting some help from Artie, which is…fine. They’re really friends now, she’s sure, but at the same time, she’s not sure she wants to tell Santana that he’s tutoring her, which also feels wrong, and…yeah.

And even having Rory around is nice, after his legal battle to stay one more year in the US in order to graduate—though he’ll still have to do another year in Ireland. They’d barely interacted after Santana had, apparently, scared him into avoiding her at all costs, but now that Santana is in New York, and Brittany has forgiven him for pretending to be a leprechaun (though, really, she had forgiven him so long ago), she finds he’s pleasant and friendly. Her parents like him, and he’s good with her little sister, and he still spends far too much time over at Sugar’s house—and Brittany is pretty sure they’re not even really dating—and a decent amount of time over at the Hudson-Hummel house visiting Sam, but it’s nice to have someone in the house who will tell her if she forgets to put on sneakers before leaving for school.

As her semester begins, she gets a text from Santana on Labor Day—the day before school starts—that says that Sam’s birthday is in a few days, and it might be nice to start the Glee school year with a song for him. She knows San has a soft spot for Sam. He never held a grudge against her for using him as a beard for a few months.

Brittany’s stuck. She knows Sam likes country, but she doesn’t really know any—despite the fact that it is western Ohio, and probably one in three radio stations is country. So she texts Rachel, who she figures must know _something_.

 

**Brittany SPierce: Hey rachel I wanna do**  
 **a country song 4 sam’s bday but don’t**  
 **now any. Do u?**

The response is so typically _Rachel_ that Brittany smiles.

 

**Rachberry: Well, country is not a style I**  
 **am intimately familiar with, but I am**  
 **occasionally known to enjoy the song**  
 **stylings of one Nanci Griffith. Perhaps**  
 **Lone Star State of Mind would resonate**  
 **with Sam due to his current situation with**  
 **Mercedes?**

She checks with Sugar to make sure she understands exactly what Rachel means, and yeah, Rachel recommended a country song to her. She looks it up, and finds she rather likes it, despite the twang, and the next day, plays it for Tina, who grins.

“This is great, Brittany,” Tina enthuses, “This is out of both of our comfort zones, so when we rock this as our co-captain tryout debut, Mr. Schue will be forced to admit that we’ll be the best co-captains!

Brittany nods fervently, “So let’s do it on Thursday! It has to be Thursday.”

Tina looks confused, but Brittany is thrilled. She hadn’t even thought of doing it as a co-captain thing, she’d just wanted Tina’s opinion on the song. She’s pretty sure people call this killing two birds with one stone, but that always sounded unnecessarily cruel to her, not to mention really difficult, and this isn’t so hard at all, in fact it’s kind of the easy way.

She enlists Joe, because even though she barely knows her—him, she corrects herself forcefully—she knows he seems more comfortable behind a guitar. They need somebody who can handle the intricate twanging the song requires, and Tina points out would be unfair to ask Puck to come back to the high school for a day to play in front of the Glee club he can no longer be a part of, even if he is still in town. And, of course, they can’t ask Artie because he’s their competition. Or Sam, obviously, though Tina doesn’t seem to understand that.

Brittany knows that dancing is her forte, but she still has confidence in her singing voice. Even so, she gives Tina the lead for the chorus and the bridge and finds learning the harmony is pretty easy; they only vary on a few words. A lot of the song they’ll be singing in unison, though, and she gives Tina the longer of the two verses.

And really, Brittany is sure, they’ve got this in the bag (though, which bag it is, is a good question. She thinks it’s Mr. Schue’s man purse, but maybe it’s her Cheerios sports bag).

 

_Cause if good means wrong you can sing along_

 

Tina had originally thought that she’d be competing with Brittany for Glee club captain, but when the blonde approaches with the country song (and Tina doesn’t miss the way her eyes look red-rimmed and teary, as they have since Santana left), she instantly understands. Who said there needed to be a male captain and a female captain? As far as Tina is concerned, women had been bringing the talent in the Glee club much more consistently—even if that unfortunately means that Tina herself has been overshadowed. But then, she reasons, so has Brittany, at least in terms of singing, and the girl certainly isn’t _bad_.

And when it comes time to perform, Tina directs much of her attention to Artie and Blaine, because now that they’ve broken the gender stratification, they are the competition, and they need to see her superiority! But, she notices, Brittany is singing straight at Sam. And in fact, eventually pulls Sam up to dance as they finish up the song. Sam is grinning happily—even blushing a little?

Strange, Tina thinks as they finish up the song and Brittany announces that she sang the song for Sam and also to show that she and Tina should be Glee club co-captains. Even stranger, Sam hugs Brittany and they whisper a few words to one another and then, to Tina’s surprise, the boy wraps her in a hug as well and whispers his thanks. It is almost like the habitual intentional stutter has returned when Tina can’t find a response. Sam even hugs Joe afterwards, leaning awkwardly over Joe’s guitar, and boys laugh at the attempt to hug.

She watches as Brittany sits next to a still grinning Sam for the rest of the rehearsal (Mr. Schue is very impressed, Tina notes proudly), and something prods around in the back of Tina’s mind.

After rehearsal, Tina approaches Brittany and tries to find a way to be subtle—she’s normally pretty good at subtlety. “So, Sam seemed to like the song.”

Brittany smiles, “Yeah. It was San’s idea to sing for him. Although she didn’t pick the song. But we did good, right?”

Giving Brittany’s arm an affectionate squeeze, Tina responds, “We did amazing,” and they head home. She sees she has a text from Mike telling her he misses her and asking her to call this evening. The feeling in the back of her mind intensifies. Mike’s only been gone for about two weeks, and already there’s an ache in her chest. And Santana’s been gone for about three weeks, and _God_ , those two had been inseparable…

When she logs onto Facebook, she finally notices that it’s Sam’s birthday, and she literally facepalms, because really, she should have known that about someone in her circle of friends. But even realizing that Brittany had wanted to perform the song for Sam’s birthday doesn’t completely remove the distraction in her mind.

Santana had asked Brittany to perform for Sam. Dedicating a song in Glee is kind of a big deal, right? And a song about how far away those we love are? And Brittany is the girl who offered to make out with Tina in exchange for some math homework during Tina’s freshman year…

It’s when she talks to Mike that evening, smiling as she listens to him talk about his classmates (he’s mostly mentioned women), and how relieved he is to realize he has two classmates that live in his apartment building with him, that Tina finally lets the thought coalesce.

Is Santana encouraging Brittany, whose sexual prowess is probably more untamed than anyone else Tina knows, to be physical with others to keep their own connection from getting muddled by sexual frustration?

Are Santana and Brittany in an open relationship?

And why is this possibility so fascinating to Tina?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from David Bowie, “I’m Deranged,” Church, “Under the Milky Way,” Zola Jesus, “Vessel,” Sucre, “When We Were Young,” Moonbabies, “Take Me To The Ballroom.” Songs mentioned are Jill Sobule, “I Kissed A Girl,” and Nanci Griffith, “Lone Star State of Mind.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Helen: Santana's coworker, drives a truck, enjoys Starbucks, activates Santana's gaydar.


	9. Shape shift and trick the past again

_Shape-shift and trick the past again_

 

It’s borderline ridiculous how _routine_ it is for Quinn’s mantra to be “this is a new path, and a new me.”

She reflects that, if the major changes in her life had all actually managed to be _good_ , that “Man in the Mirror” might be her theme song, but as it stands, not every reinvention of herself or shift of her identity has been good. Although, lately she’s been trying to be, for lack of a better word…better. Trying to be more open with others—though, Rachel seems to bring that out of her effortlessly—trying to reconstruct her friendships with Brittany and Santana until they’re real friends again, trying to be the best friend Rachel Berry has ever had…

And this change, the ones she wants to make when she becomes Quinn Fabray, College Student, might be good, too. At least, that what she hopes as she and her mother carry boxes and bags up to her dorm room, her mother wearing a permanent smile that actually seems to be genuine—it lacks that glassy, plastic aura that she had usually worn in the past.

That, and the fact that her mother has so far survived the trip with only a single glass of wine at dinner the day before when they’d stopped near Binghamton for the night (they’d taken a slightly longer route through New York rather than Pennsylvania in order to dodge New York City traffic), is impressive. Making the trip in two days had probably been a good idea as well; Quinn had done some driving around during the summer, but not really outside of Lima, and she’d preferred that her mother do the driving out to New Haven; driving faster than about 40 mph is still nerve-wracking. Asking her mother to drive for twelve hours straight, though, seemed perhaps unfair, hence their stop.

After unloading the car, Quinn sees they have plenty of time, since she doesn’t have anything orientation-related until the evening, so her mother suggests lunch. Her mother offers to take her somewhere in town, since she’ll be living off so much dining hall food very soon. Quinn appreciates the gesture, and they settle in at a simple diner—probably due to nerves, Quinn has been craving bacon.

Her mom orders hot tea, a salad and a cold turkey sandwich, and Quinn gets water, a BLT, and a extra side of bacon. Her mother raises an eyebrow at this, and Quinn flushes, feeling suddenly like _Lucy_ , like the amount she’s eating is being secretly scrutinized and silently condemned by her whole family and she just can’t _control_ it, but her mother’s face relaxes into a smile after a moment and she regards Quinn warmly over her tea.

“I know I never say this enough, but I am so proud of you, Quinnie,” Judy states.

The warmth floods Quinn for a moment, leaving in its wake an abrupt cold chill when she thinks about how she wants to reinvent herself in college, the kind of person she wants to become, and wonders for how long she’ll continue to make her mother proud. Will her mother still call her Quinnie? It is a nickname she’d despised at first; she felt sure when she’d adopted her middle name only for her mother to make a diminutive of it that her mother was refusing to accept that she was a grown person in charge of her own destiny, but now, a small part of her _liked_ the stupid nickname. She thought it actually felt affectionate rather than like a subtle attack.

They politely discuss Quinn’s orientation schedule, and Judy’s plans for her drive home over their lunch. Quinn’s once again grateful for her mother’s willingness to take three days off, two of them work days, to come with her. She’s not sure she could have brought everything she needs for school on a plane or train.

She’s actually grateful for a lot with regard to her mother. She knows it hasn’t been easy for her to live on her own, without Russell, even if the divorce left her with money (though, mostly she’d been left with property, such as the house). She has to work for the first time in years—the History degree her mother had earned way back when didn’t lead to much, but a college degree and the way her mother had maintained her appearance got her a job as a bank teller. Not ideal, but it is something, and with the various investments, government bonds and retirement funds she’d been putting money into under her own name for several years, and the inheritance from her parents, she could live comfortably. And at least the job had benefits—such as the health insurance for Quinn that had surely helped save her.

After lunch, Judy smiles and says she’d better start the first part of her drive home, and Quinn had better get ready for orientation. She drops Quinn off at her dorm and gets out of the car to give Quinn a hug.

Quinn almost stiffens at the contact, but forces herself to relax into the hug. She can’t remember the last time they hugged—probably graduation, when she was so elated that she wouldn’t have even thought twice. When Quinn was wheelchair-bound, the physical contact between them—necessary, but no less welcome, at least at first—had been fraught with frustration and anguish. They had never been a touchy family. But Quinn schools her features into a relaxed smile as they pull away—she is interested in studying theater, after all.

“Quinn, I just want you to remember that I love you, just as you are.” The words are serious, and Judy’s blue-green eyes meet hers with more clarity than Quinn can ever remember before, and Quinn feels a shudder that sinks down her spine and into her guts.

She feels sure, as she has on one other petrifying occasion, that her mother can read her, and knows the exact way in which Quinn wishes to reinvent herself, and Quinn feels inexplicably that despite the words, this is a _warning_.

“Love you, too, Mom,” is the only reply she can utter. Judy smiles and gets into the car and, with a wave, drives away.

Quinn goes back up to her room and finds her roommate—Stephanie, from Maryland—has arrived and they greet one another with forced casualness. They had emailed a few times over the summer to work out who would bring what, and Quinn had looked her up on Facebook, but didn’t friend her, so she at least knew what the girl looked like. Though, in person, Quinn has to admit, she exudes a sort of charisma that can’t be captured on film.

She’s pretty, too. Brown skin, dark eyes, thick, black hair. A future conversation will reveal that she’s half Lakota, accounting for her complexion. They talk briefly about freshman orientation and what they want to study—Stephanie is torn between English with a writing concentration and Communications/Journalism, and Quinn is pretty sure she’s going to attempt to double major in English and in the interdisciplinary Theater program. But their similar interests have placed them in the same writing-intensive English poets class, for which Quinn is grateful.

“You said you just ate, right?” Stephanie asks, “Because I’m about to go grab a late lunch with my boyfriend.”

“Does he go here, too?” Quinn asks, a little surprised.

Stephanie smiles, “Yeah.”

“Did you know him from high school?”

“Oh, no. We actually found each other on Facebook, in that group for the incoming class of 2016? We realized we only lived a few towns from each other and started meeting up in April just to get to know each other. We thought it would be nice to have at least one familiar face here. But by June…well, we were together.”

“That’s great,” Quinn forces her own smile. This guy may not be an anchor from Stephanie’s past, but there’s a part of Quinn that feels like it’s a bad idea to start college while seeing someone.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Stephanie inquires in return.

Quinn almost chokes, and tries again for a smile (and really, being asked to cry would be so much easier right now), “No. I wanted to come to college single, so here I am.” She spreads her arms dramatically, making Stephanie chuckle, and her breath catches over the words she really wishes she could add to the end of this statement.

As Stephanie leaves, Quinn sinks down into her chair heavily, wondering if she’s ever going to have the courage to live her life the way she really, truly wants.

 

_Heaven must be hell in the sky_

 

It is one of those things that makes her feel just a little bit guilty. One of the many, many things. It turns out her cowardice isn’t the only thing that weighs on her—has weighed on her for weeks, now, since she started school.

She’s on the phone with Rachel, discussing her impending first visit that weekend, and she hesitates, asking, “Isn’t Yom Kippur today?”

A beat of silence, and then Rachel says, surprised, “Why, yes. It is, at sundown.”

“What’s it about?” Quinn asks, “My calendar just says that it exists, and I don’t know whether I wish you a happy Yom Kippur or…” She knows she could have looked it up, but she wants to hear it from Rachel. Hear what it means to her.

There’s a bit of a smile in Rachel’s voice a she answers, “It’s not really that kind of happy holiday. It means the Day of Atonement. If I were at home, I would probably go to synagogue, but here, I’m just going to fast and spend part of the evening praying and in self-reflection.”

“Atonement,” Quinn repeats, “It’s a holiday about atonement?”

“Yes,” Rachel responds, “We ask forgiveness from people we’ve wronged up until it begins, and then on Yom Kippur itself, we ask forgiveness from God for sins against Him. And even Jews like me who aren’t very strictly observant—though, I definitely wouldn’t say I’m a secular Jew—usually do spend the evening reflecting on one’s potential for self-improvement.”

It’s the fascination Quinn feels in thinking about this Jewish holiday that’s causing the guilt, because she remembers watching _The Passion of the Christ_ with her father, and hearing him say, very seriously, that although Jews could be good people, he just couldn’t forgive them for the atrocities they committed against Christ. And the imagery in that movie, God, she had been too young to watch it…

She’s thought about religion enough to decide that her father’s statements don’t even make _sense_ , because Christ’s death was supposed to be a _good_ thing because of the absolution it brought about, and it was prophesied, and fulfilling the prophecy would be a gift, so really, her father should be _thanking_ the Jews who had him crucified…but she’s accepted that her father is not a particularly rational man.

Atonement. It is different than what she is used to. She isn’t Catholic, so she never went to confession, but she had been Lutheran, in quite a conservative congregation—enough so that they had voted to leave the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America after that organizing body had voted to allow the ordination of gay clergy. And Lutherans and Catholics have been talking _forever_ about the possibility of taking the Eucharist together, so they are actually quite closely related in a lot of ways, and she can attest that Lutheran Guilt is definitely a thing…

Now, she doesn’t know what she is. It had taken her mother awhile to find a new church to join, since she no longer wanted to attend the one Russell still belonged to, but eventually they’d started going to the Methodist church Sam’s family attended, though they really hadn’t gone long enough for Quinn to _feel_ Methodist, especially since there had been a period or two when she just stopped attending. Just Christian seems the best description for her, but even thinking about a Jewish holiday, even if she’s sure the way she’s approaching it is embarrassingly simplistic, _still_ isn’t something that completely sits right with her, even though she knows how closely related the religions are. But she loves this idea. The idea of atonement, self-improvement. She may have never had to confess her sins to a priest, but she’d been encouraged to confess them to God and beg forgiveness, and somehow, that had always just made her feel helpless, even if she did sometimes feel better afterwards. This…this connotes _working_ toward forgiveness, making amends, not just asking for the absolution that you _know_ will be granted. This is _proactive_.

And Quinn Fabray, College Freshman, knows some things never change—she will always relish working to make herself better.

It’s easy to see where she needs to start, and as soon as the sun sinks out of sight, she summons what little bit of courage she possesses and calls him. Just hitting “call” sends a wave of relief through her, and she hasn’t even gotten to the hard part yet.

“Hey,” she says awkwardly when he answers, sounding uncertain.

“Quinn,” Artie greets, “How are you? Are you okay?” His voice rises a bit in mild panic.

“Yeah,” she says, grimacing slightly at the fact that he automatically assumes she called him because something bad had happened to her. But, to be fair, what else is he supposed to think? When else had they ever really spoken until she’d wanted someone there with her who _understood_ what she was going through? “No, I’m fine, Artie. I’m doing really well, actually.”

“Good!” he responds, a little too enthusiastically, “That’s great, Quinn.”

“Thanks,” she nods, and there’s silence on the line for a few moments, until she finally blurts, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I called.”

Artie just sniffs out a little laugh, and Quinn can almost see him rolling his eyes.

“I’m calling because…I need to apologize to you.”

“Wait, what?” he’s surprised, clearly.

“For what happened when I was in the wheelchair. You were a huge help to me, I hope you realize, but…I shouldn’t have been so angry when you tried to tell me I might never walk again.”

“Well, I was clearly wrong, so there’s really no need to apologize,” Artie responds stiffly.

“Yeah, but…that’s not the point. The point is more that it was incredibly insensitive of me to throw something like that back in your face, to be like, your _life_ is just temporary to me. And it’s just…I don’t want to be the person who just lets people into her life when she needs something from them, and I treated you like that, and it’s not fair. You were trying to be a good friend.”

Artie’s quiet a moment, and then he says, “I owe you an apology, too. For pushing that way too soon, and way too hard. I was just worried you were in denial—and I’m sorry I assumed you were, too. But I know what that’s like, I spent so much time as a kid just telling myself if I tried hard enough, I could stand up. I’m sorry, for being kind of a douche about it.”

“You weren’t though,” Quinn laughs, lying only a little, because _yeah_ , she had been _pissed_ when that whole thing had happened. “But thanks for trying to be a true friend to me, and I’m sorry I sorta flung it back into your face.”

“Hey, no big,” Artie says nonchalantly, “All is forgiven. We cool?”

“Yeah,” Quinn breathes.

Their conversation isn’t much longer—they share little details about school, though there’s not yet much to report; Quinn assures Artie that college is challenging, but that if he’s taken the Honors and AP classes, he’ll probably be pretty well prepared. Artie tells Quinn about he and Blaine trying to be Glee co-captains and even a little about A/V Club; when Zizes graduated, there were no more girls in the club, but Artie says a few have joined and that they’re pretty cool, and something in his voice makes Quinn smile. When Quinn hangs up, she feels a little bit…at peace. She doesn’t even feel guilty anymore that she took action inspired by observing a Jewish holiday, especially since she did it wrong by asking for forgiveness from a human during the time she was supposed to be asking for forgiveness from God.

She thinks, then, that maybe forgiveness from another person is worth a lot more than divine forgiveness. It sure makes her breathe easier than a prayer.

 

_I wish I could buy back the woman you stole_

 

After her evening of phone sex with Brittany, combined with the soft intimacy of reading to her girlfriend while both were curled up in their beds, Santana manages to fall asleep early and wakes up around 11 in the morning, to her surprise. She shuffles out of her room to find the shower running and a sweaty Quinn, glasses askew, stepping off the elliptical that…what? When the hell had _that_ moved to the living room? Santana ends up staring, mostly in bewilderment that apparently Quinn and Rachel had moved this thing early in the morning without waking her up—she guesses Quinn had been serious about helping Rachel rearrange furniture—and watches Quinn take down her ponytail, shaking out her hair, damp with perspiration.

“Seriously?” Santana asks, popping open her box of cereal.

Quinn rolls her eyes, “Once a Cheerio, always a Cheerio, right? Sometimes I just have so much energy in the morning.”

Santana frowns slightly as Quinn wipes at her brow with a hand, her eyes roaming Quinn’s body, which, not that Santana has necessarily _studied_ it in the past, but they had been so close and so exposed the locker room that she _knows_ what Quinn’s body looks like, and honestly, she thinks it looks about the same as always. The freshman fifteen must not have kicked in yet, she muses, but then glances down at herself. She knows it’s always hard to tell, what with seeing your own body every day, but is she imagining that her abs are a little less defined these days? Fuck, why don’t she and Rachel own a scale? That had been a requirement when she was a Cheerio.

She frowns darkly, pouring herself a little less cereal than normal. Shit, she thinks, what with Rachel on the elliptical every day, she’d have thought that exercise would enter her mind at _some_ point. She moves around _some_ at work, but it’s nothing like the training her body is used to. She just feels so thrown off by her schedule. So she vows to take a run a little bit after breakfast, after her stomach has time to settle.

But she attempts to joke with Quinn, who is filling up a cup of water at the faucet, “I know what you mean” (she doesn’t, what with morning being when she _sleeps_ ) “but I more meant that it seems like you got Rachel to sleep in?”

Quinn laughs, “Don’t even ask me how. I think she had secretly been awake for hours but didn’t want me to feel bad for sleeping so late, so she pretended to be just waking up, too. She’s crafty, and she can act well, of course.”

Santana smirks at Quinn, feeling strangely like they’re proud parents talking about their loveable child. She shakes off the weird feeling and snarks at the first thing she thinks of, “Nice glasses,” because she’s rarely seen them—only when Quinn begrudgingly let her and Brittany visit for about fifteen minutes when she was just out of the hospital. She doesn’t know _how_ Quinn did it, but she must have worn contacts all night during their sleepovers, refusing to admit they were there and ignoring any discomfort in the morning. Even after Zizes had spread those Lucy pictures up all over the hall, Quinn had continued to pretend that she wasn’t wearing contacts. Santana is honestly shocked that Quinn made it all through high school without incidents like losing a contact or without anyone catching her using drops or anything. But really, the black-framed glasses, in a slightly muted cats-eye shape, somehow suit Quinn. Especially with the hair, though, that is getting a little long and shaggy and Quinn should consider getting it trimmed. Maybe she’ll offer to take her to a salon.

Quinn’s eyes flash and she snarls, “Nice fake tits,” and Santana feigns shock—well, mostly feigns, because _jeez_ , touchy much?

“I pay you a genuine compliment and _that’s_ how you respond?” Santana asks dramatically.

“Right, _genuine_ ,” Quinn fires back with a half-hearted glare, and at that moment, Rachel bounds out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.

“All yours, Quinn!” she calls, beaming, “Oh, good morning, Santana!”

“Cover up, Berry!” Santana teases, pretending to be scandalized and covering her eyes (it is kind of a short towel, she realizes, and where is Rachel’s bathrobe?), “And it’s _so_ not all yours, Q. I need it first. Jesus, how are we ever going to do this with Kurt here, too?” she mutters as she strides past a smirking Rachel into the bathroom.

As she walks back out to the kitchen to get her coffee and breakfast, she realizes belatedly that she’s smiling. She has to admit, there’s something about having Rachel and Quinn in the house with her that just puts her in a good mood, even with her sleep being slightly off and without even having coffee.

As Santana leans back, reading the headlines on the New York Times website on her laptop (which is about all she generally does), Rachel and Quinn sit together on the couch and discuss their plans for the day. Santana feels slightly left out, but then Rachel turns to her and says something that shows she assumes Santana wants to join them in…god, Santana really hadn’t been paying attention, Times Square or Central Park or something equally touristy? While she wants to spend time with them, she had just promised herself that she would go running, so she declines politely and suggests they do something the next day before she has to go to work and Quinn has to go home.

“Oh!” Santana interjects into her own suggestions, clapping her hands in an overly Mr. Schue-like gesture, “I have an idea. Quinn, please make me some dinner tonight. It’s been like _forever_ since I’ve had a good home-cooked, meaty meal. I’m like, dying of malnutrition with all the stuff Berry and I have to eat.” Not that they ate together that much, but Santana’s pretty sure the quesadillas that have become her fallback meal are not particularly healthy, especially not when she slathers them with sour cream, salsa and guacamole.

Rachel sniffs indignantly, “You don’t have to, Quinn, you’re our guest.”

“But, Berry, Q can cook _anything_ and I just wants me a steak or something!”

“Seriously? Steak?” Quinn raises an eyebrow, “And yeah, I can cook and I would be willing to, but I want to cook something Rachel can eat, too.”

“Goddamn it, Berry.” Santana grumps.

“Let’s compromise,” Quinn placates with a smile, “I’ll be glad to cook tonight if you go to the store to get what I want—we’ll pick a good recipe before we all leave—and tomorrow when you wake up, I’ll cook you some bacon. You know I can do it perfectly.” She regards Rachel, “You’ll be able to handle the smell of frying bacon? I know it’ll be difficult to resist.”

Rachel scowls and folds her arms and takes a deep breath, as if preparing for a lecture, but Quinn smiles and places a comforting hand on her upper arm, “I know, it’s horribly inhumane. Will you be okay if Santana and I indulge, just this once?”

Rachel seems to deflate, “Of course, Quinn, you’re the guest. I just feel bad that Santana is browbeating you into cooking.”

“Browbeating?” Santana echoes disbelievingly, and Quinn smirks.

“I’ll be happy to do it. You guys need some _real_ cooking in your life. You know, the kind that involves more than a microwave?”

“Hey!” Rachel and Santana erupt simultaneously, both feeling the slight.

Quinn just laughs, “I really don’t know how you two have survived this long.”

Rachel and Quinn leave soon afterwards, leaving a list for Santana for ingredients for the Italian dinner they’d agreed upon—after agreeing on the kind of cuisine, Quinn seemed to pull a recipe from her head that, she claimed, was simple, delicious, and easy to make vegan. Santana goes for a run soon after that and _god_ …she hadn’t realized how out of shape she was. She hadn’t really had much exercise that summer unless you counted sex with Brittany, which occasionally felt like a varsity sport all on its own. It’s pleasantly mild out and she draws men’s eyes as she runs past them in her tank top and spandex shorts, to the point that she feels a little uncomfortable. It’s not like the eyes of boys in high school, boys she knew she had power over. These eyes don’t regard her with any apprehension or grudging respect. They merely _want_.

So she doesn’t go far. She runs up and down the streets near her apartment, not venturing more than two blocks away, before huffing and panting and ending up back at home. And when she later maps her run online, it’s honestly kind of _pathetic_ the small distance she ran.

That evening, the joy of the surprisingly domestic scene makes her smile. Quinn, in a cream-colored dress, with a hand on her hip as she stirs the pasta, humming a Goldfrapp song lowly, dropped to a lower key so she can hum it comfortably, but still recognizable; Rachel, unable to sit still while Quinn works in the kitchen, hovers neurotically and asks repeatedly how she can help, only to have the ever-patient Quinn rebuff her offers gently time and again; Santana, watching them from the recliner in the living room, smirks as she relishes the feeling that they’re serving her—Rachel even comes over to ask her what she wants to drink. No matter what the situation, Santana likes control, and however elusively it fits into this situation, she basks.

Quinn has made whole wheat spaghetti drizzled with olive oil and topped with fresh basil shreds, parmesan for Quinn and Santana, and lightly seared freshly diced tomatoes, olives, artichokes and so few meticulously chopped capers that Santana is convinced they won’t make a difference in the flavor. She also made what she calls garlic bread, but is slices of Italian bread, warmed in the oven for a bit with a heaping spoonful of raw diced garlic and a touch of olive oil on top. She makes Rachel and Santana start out with a salad—from a bag, arugula and baby lettuce—with a vinaigrette she made herself, though Santana is partially convinced that the reason Quinn divided the meal into courses was to get Rachel to sit the fuck down. When it’s ready, Rachel springs up and insists on helping Quinn serve the food, and when Quinn finally sits down on the couch next to Rachel, with her own serving as well as her own salad, she laments lightly that they weren’t able to buy some red wine that would compliment the meal. Santana snorts at this, while Rachel regards Quinn with wide, impressed eyes.

“Quinn, you’re such an amazing cook, where did you learn all this?”

Quinn half-smiles, chuckling, “You haven’t even tried it, Rachel, and it’s not that amazing, it’s a simple recipe. And, you know. My mom.”

Santana watches them both as she shovels the first bite into her mouth—and god, Quinn’s modest, because it’s _really_ good, fresh and delicious. Quinn looks slightly uncomfortable, and Rachel still looks in awe, but slightly wistful, and Santana is surprised to recall her saying, what feels like so many years ago, that her family ate a lot of takeout. Finally, after swallowing a mouthful, Quinn erupts, “It’s feminine bullshit, you know? I mean, it’s not her fault, it’s how she was raised, and it’s _so_ hard to escape that when it’s all you know, but Frannie and I were like…sous-chefs in the kitchen from like age six on. And that’s…you know, a little bit crazy. But it’s _fine_ ,” she meets Rachel’s eye at this, seeming to sense the wave of guilt that Santana can practically feel radiating off the smaller girl, “I like cooking. I wouldn’t want to do it all the time, but I like being able to feed you and S something nice. But it’s also just…when she was married to my father, I don’t think my mom could even conceive of a future for me that didn’t involve me being a housewife. And now I want other things, and I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to reconcile the fact that I’m in college for my BA, not for my MRS. And when I sign up for the Feminism, Race, Gender and Sexuality freshmen seminar that I want to take next semester…I don’t know how she’s going to react.”

No one seems to know how to respond at first. Rachel lays a hand on Quinn’s arm and says quietly, “The interactions have gotten better between you two lately. She had to know that you chose Yale for a quality education.”

Quinn shakes her head, bringing another forkful to her mouth to avoid responding. Santana knows what she’s thinking; Judy could just as easily believe Quinn chose Yale in order to find a rich husband. So Santana elects to relieve the tension. “You really don’t wanna be a housewife, Q? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting, you’d be a hell of one. You could be mine if you want. I’ll carry on a longstanding affair with Britts, understand, but I’ll totally support you with my retail salary.”

A relieved laugh escapes Quinn, “How could I refuse. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet,” she deadpans, and Santana grins. Rachel still looks concerned, but conversation is light through the rest of the meal.

The next day, Santana wakes up quite early—having gone to bed early _again_ , and after some delicious Quinn-quality bacon, attempts to drag Quinn off to the salon. Quinn seems uncertain, at least until she gets Rachel to agree to come with them, which…while Santana can actually admit that she definitely likes Rachel now, she had kind of hoped to get some best friend time in with just Quinn. But it’s fine, she reasons, as she and Rachel flip through a _Cosmo_ together and giggle at the impractical advice contained within, both glancing up every once in awhile to look at the progress of Quinn’s haircut. Hairtrim, more like, because while Quinn likes her hair short, she keeps insisting she doesn’t want it _too_ short.

And afterwards, they check out a bit of the Queens Botanical Garden since it’s free that time of day. It feels like it should be too late in the season for it to be really beautiful, but it is; so many late-blooming flowers Santana didn’t even know existed cover the beds. She’s not too into plants, though Quinn and Rachel seem to be, as they point at flowers and seem to know their names, but she does like walking the pathways and looking at the fountains and buildings. And even she likes looking at the trees and the expanses of grass, as she soaks up the sun, knowing she doesn’t see it nearly enough. Afterwards, they grab some dinner out, and even though it’s only six o’clock, and she has _hours_ before work, Santana feels extremely anxious about being out of the apartment when she has to work. It feels _wrong_ to be out having fun. Luckily, they head back soon enough, and Santana prepares to take her second shower of the day to wash the grime of the city off. She hugs Quinn goodbye, as Rachel is about to walk with her to her train home.

“Thanks for coming, Q. And for the food,” Santana murmurs into Quinn’s shoulder, and she tousles Quinn’s shorter hair when she pulls back.

Quinn swats her hand away with a smile and responds, “Good to see you, S. I’ll be visiting again soon!” and reaches out to muss Santana’s hair in retaliation before dancing out of the way of Santana’s lunge to scamper toward Rachel, who is waiting by the door.

And as Santana stands under the spray of the shower, relaxing in the knowledge that there’s no way she’ll be late for work as she irrationally feared and worrying only slightly about staying awake due to her long day, she reflects in the strangeness that Quinn had really been visiting to see Rachel more than her. And even though she’d watched the way the two had grown closer all summer, it is still the weirdest thing to witness firsthand.

Because, really, who ever would have guessed that McKinley’s resident diva would finally win the friendship of its fiercest, coldest Head Bitch in Charge?

 

_When you say it’s no love affair_

 

It took Brittany and Tina singing him a birthday song for Sam to realize, fully, what he needed to do.

Their performance had been wonderful. Sam had been unable to stop grinning as he thought back to his mother waltzing around the kitchen with his father, crooning other Nanci Griffith songs to each other, like “Trouble in the Fields” or “I Wish It Would Rain.” But especially this one. So deceptively upbeat, yet heartbreaking.

He misses them, but he’s happy in Lima. Happy with his friends. Happy to work delivering pizzas in order to afford the things he needs for school and his extracurriculars—Glee club, obviously, and football again, too, because he’s the quarterback this year. His parents keep assuring him that they’re doing okay, that they’re more than breaking even, and that he should focus on his studies, but he keeps a savings account in case they ever need some money.

He likes living with Kurt and Finn’s family, but he wants to impose on them as little as possible. It was hard enough for him when Burt had offered to put Sam’s car on his insurance, and Sam could just pay him, so that it would save both him and his parents money. He’s especially worried about when the house empties out. It’s weird enough since Finn left during the summer; despite a shaky start to their friendship with the whole Quinn thing, Finn had turned out to be a pretty good friend. And Kurt, well, Sam has always liked and respected Kurt, but they don’t have a whole lot in common, so while it is nice to have Kurt around, it isn’t quite the same. But if Kurt leaves, which he’s been hinting at, and it’s just him and their parents…Sam wonders.

When he gets home from school that day, there’s a card from Quinn containing an iTunes gift card and one from Rachel and Santana containing some much-needed cash, and his heart warms, especially because he knows that New York City is expensive. There’s also package from Mercedes. He smiles as he opens it, finding a green plaid shirt, new football cleats, a new set of strings for his guitar and chapstick. It’s somehow the most perfect birthday present ever, even moreso because he suspects that Mercedes had a hand in Kurt’s present that he was given over breakfast, a voucher for a free oil change and tire rotation at the Hummel shop; he’d just been off-handedly telling Mercedes the other evening on the phone that his car needed those things and he didn’t really have time to do them himself.

So, still smiling, though it’s turned wistful, he calls Mercedes, who answers breathlessly, “Hey! Good timing, boy, I just got out of my class. Happy birthday!”

“Thanks,” Sam grins, “I got your package. It’s perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so,” she responds smugly.

Sam sits heavily on his bed, her confident voice coaxing a relaxed sigh from him. “Can we talk about something for a minute?” he asks.

“Sure,” Mercedes’s voice is instantly more uncertain, guarded, “What’s up?”

Sam chews his lip for a moment and assesses his words, “Everyone thinks we’re together. And obviously I don’t have a problem with that. How we work is our business, and what I want most for you is for you to focus on your future. I want you to be a star.” Mercedes exhales slowly, and Sam continues, “That’s why, well. You know that’s why I let you go before you left for LA. But I realized something.”

“What?” Mercedes asks, quietly, breathlessly, and Sam’s heart swells.

“I realized that, no matter what we call each other, my heart belongs to you. You’re the girl for me, Mercedes. But, I’m not gonna try to make a claim on you. Not while there’s so much else you need to focus on, and so many other people for you to meet. I just wanted you to know. I’ll always be yours, if you let me.”

“Oh, Sam,” Mercedes breathes, “Even if you’re not my boyfriend, I think there’s always going to be a part of me waiting for you. I love you. Distance isn’t going to change that. And I have a feeling that, in the future, we’ll make this work.”

Sam lets out a breathless, relieved chuckle, “I’m glad I got to say that. I love you.”

“I’ll love you until the day when we can finally get started on _our_ future, not just mine.”

“Go knock ‘em dead, girl. LA ain’t heard nothing yet.”

Mercedes laughs (at how white he is, he assumes), and their conversation turns comfortable and routine, and Sam knows for sure that someday, maybe even someday soon, they’ll pick back up right where they left off. For now, though, they’re friends. Friends who love each other, who will kiss and cuddle when they’re in the same town together. And that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles are from Metric, “Black Sheep,” Rammstein, “Engel,” Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “Y Control,” and Tapes ‘n Tapes, “Omaha.” The Rammstein lyrics are a translation, though not my own. Other songs mentioned are Michael Jackson, “Man in the Mirror,” Goldfrapp, “Strict Machine,” (as the song Quinn is humming), and Nanci Griffith, “Trouble in the Fields” and “I Wish It Would Rain.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Stephanie: Introduced this chapter


	10. I need someone else to look into my eyes and tell me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just to clarify the timing of this, it’s about part of Rachel’s second trip to New Haven, not the first, which probably won’t be explored much (assume it was casual and fun, and nothing notable was said). Also, the second part of the update is a lot of Blaine being Blaine and some Klaine.

_I need someone else to look into my eyes and tell me_

 

Sometimes, it’s hard to make sense of Santana’s schedule. Even though she knows factually when Santana sleeps, when planning when to run errands and complete tasks, the morning often seems like the natural time to do it. She really can’t help it; she’s a morning person, after all.

So when they try to find a time to go shopping for Blaine’s birthday, they butt heads a few times. They’re both so busy during the week, and Santana displays a strange anxiety when asked to leave the apartment on days that she works, so that leaves Friday. Rachel is heading to New Haven that weekend and wants to catch a train that leaves around four o’clock on Friday, and Santana bitingly replies that she probably won’t even be awake at that point, let alone ready to leave the apartment. Rachel suggests that they go in the morning after Santana gets out of work, and Santana rolls her eyes and growls, “Oh, yeah, that sounds great, staying up way past my bedtime to go shopping. I’ll be in a fantastic mood.”

“Like you are right now?” Rachel bites back, before wincing and rubbing her forehead, “I’m sorry, Santana. I’m being unreasonable. It’s just…somehow hard to get used to the fact that you sleep in the mornings.”

Santana sighs and meets Rachel’s eye guiltily. “Nah. I’m sorry. Look, you can’t leave later, right?”

Rachel shakes her head, “Not really, no. I have some wiggle room in that there are a few trains that leave at around four, but I really shouldn’t go any later. There’s a poetry reading Quinn really, really wants to go to that evening, and if I leave around four, we’ll have just enough time to grab some dinner before we go.”

A chuckle, and a “She is _such_ a nerd,” and then Santana bites her lip and sighs, “Well, I’ll wake up around noon or so and we can go shopping before you have to leave.”

“Santana,” Rachel starts to chastise, “That’s only…like five hours of sleep.”

Shrugging and casting her eyes away to glance at her nails, Santana responds, “Yeah, and I gots plenty of time to catch up this weekend.”

Rachel bites her lip, feeling an impulsive wash of guilt for getting Santana out of bed early, but also for leaving Santana alone. They’d only occasionally had time to hang out on weekends, usually not going far, but it had been nice to just watch TV together or whatever. Santana would be fine by herself for the weekend, right?

But it turns out pretty okay. Santana is quite lucid after waking up early, and they head to a music shop. And Rachel knows she doesn’t spend nearly enough time exploring the city, but it’s opportunities like this that just make her _so_ excited to live here, where she can just jump on the subway and go anywhere in the city to find _whatever_ she wants. Santana browses listlessly, but Rachel is on a mission, and soon approaches Santana holding up a Lady Gaga sheet music book and a Donna Summer one.

Santana raises an eyebrow, “Okay, I get the Gaga one, we’ve always rocked her and Blaine, of course, loves her almost as much as Pink.”

Rachel nods and interrupts, “Yes, they had a Pink one but I assume he already owns that.”

Chuckling, Santana continues, “But Donna Summer?”

Rachel sighs and turns it over, flipping through, “Well, as you may know, she passed away this spring, and I know Blaine likes disco. I thought perhaps the New Directions could do a bit of a tribute. I’m envisioning a collaboration between Blaine, Sam and Artie. Perhaps something that Sam could send to Mercedes.”

Santana’s eyebrows are somewhat incredulously raised as she replies, “Well, disco _really_ isn’t Blaine’s strong suit…or really, anyone’s except Mercedes, but hey, it’s good to challenge him. But damn…what’s with you and the Sam and Mercedes thing?”

“What do you mean?” Rachel’s eyebrows draw together.

“Britts told me about you helping her choose a song for Sam’s birthday. I mean, it’s not like you’re meddling, but you’re kind focused on it, yeah?”

Rachel smiles, “I just want them to make it. The same way I want you and Brittany to make it, and Tina and Mike, and Kurt and Blaine. It’s…distance can’t be easy. It’s hard enough having _friends_ so far away, I can’t imagine.” Rachel’s face clouds and she frowns, and Santana’s heart clenches, mostly because she misses Brittany, but partly because, she thinks, Rachel _must_ be thinking of Finn, and the might have beens.

“Whatever, Berry. It sounds good to me. Now let’s buy this so I can go home and lay around the apartment naked and you can head to New Haven to visit your long-distance bestie.”

Rachel grins and…Santana swears she blushes, but it’s hard to be sure when Rachel breezes past her to go pay. Santana fumbles and hands her some cash to pay for half, and they swing by the post office to mail it. Rachel pays a little extra for quicker delivery; it might get there early, but Rachel isn’t particularly concerned, because it’s better than it arriving late. Besides, Blaine’s birthday probably won’t be particularly happy, what with saying goodbye to Kurt immediately after, so perhaps a little early celebration is warranted.

Rachel is glad that she brought her luggage with her on their outing, even though hauling it around had been irritating, because she may even be able to catch a slightly earlier train. As they get to the subway station where they’ll be going in different directions, she informs Santana that she’s going to be hugged and, possibly because she’s exhausted, Santana’s reaction time is slow and she seems surprised to be pulled into this hug. But she chuckles a little and says, “Bye, Berry. Tell Q hey. And have a good weekend, I know I will,” she finishes, pulling away to wink.

Rachel smirks back, “Santana, if you are intending to have Skype sex, I must request that you refrain from doing so on our couch.”

Santana’s eyes widen and she releases a surprised laugh, “Thanks for giving me ideas, Berry. I make no promises,” she finishes with her most sultry expression, and waves before heading away with one more, “Bye!”

Rachel does indeed catch an earlier train and texts Quinn her new ETA, receiving an enthusiastic response.

 

**Rachel Berry: I’m taking the 3:07 train  
instead, so I should get there at around 5!**

**Quinn Fabray: Wonderful! I’ll be there. I**   
**can’t wait to see you, and I’m stoked for**   
**Sonia Sanchez! Hope you are, too!**

Quinn’s enthusiasm makes her smile. She’s mostly going just because Quinn is so excited and has promised she’ll enjoy it—though, really, she doesn’t require a reason to want to visit Quinn. In truth, though poetry and song are so often related, Rachel has a clear preference, though her research has assured her that Sonia Sanchez is a very dynamic performer. She thinks she will enjoy it, though she’d honestly not known much about Sonia Sanchez. She thinks her daddy might have one of her plays in the house somewhere, but she’s never read it.

            She works on homework on the train, which there’s always so much of. So much reading, so much writing about what she reads. Two of her classes are supposed to be “practicals,” involving much more _doing_ than reading, but there’s always a lot of work with them, too, of course. She spends most of her days on campus, either doing homework while working at the library—which is, thankfully, usually pretty subdued when she’s there, affording her lots of homework time—or shut up in a study room practicing her dance and vocals. But she does usually get home in the evening just in time to see Santana before she heads off to work. Though, she reasons, that may change. She’s going to try out for a few plays and musicals in the next few weeks, both at her school and in the town. She had been almost put-off by the sheer number of talented kids surrounding her—like meeting Harmony, but times one hundred—and it had taken this long to convince herself that she was _at least_ as good as they were. She was there, wasn’t she? So why shouldn’t she try out?

The pep talk from Quinn probably had helped, too. She had been the one to point out to Rachel that she had to be at least as good as her classmates, though she had stressed that she was pretty damn sure Rachel was better, which was…it made Rachel swell with pride, and with the desire to give Quinn a _reason_ to be proud of her.

And Quinn…when she steps off the train and sees her, and their eyes meet and Quinn smiles…it’s always like this. It’s always like she forgets that Quinn does smile at her now, like she always forgets that she’s allowed to look at Quinn, to drink her in. She’s still so pretty, she always is. Her hair is kind of feathered at the moment, the length and style most comparable to what it was at the very end of Junior year. She’s wearing a long skirt and a blazer—it’s finally starting to get a little chilly this fall. Her makeup is subdued, but what she is wearing seems to make her hazel eyes just _pop_ , and they’re large and luminous as they meet Rachel’s.

She’s never had a best friend quite like this. Her friendship with Kurt has never been quite this close, or…intimate. She supposes it’s just something about the way girls are together, because she can occasionally see some similarities in her friendship with Santana, but everything with Quinn is just…deeper somehow. She’s never experienced anything like it.

Rachel drags her luggage over and almost falls into Quinn’s arms. She just saw her last weekend when Quinn visited her, but this doesn’t at all quash her desire to hug her. Quinn chuckles, in kind of the same way Santana had a few hours earlier, and wraps her arms around Rachel in return—at least her reaction time is quicker than Santana’s.

Sometimes she can’t believe that this beautiful woman is _her_ best friend. It feels like _triumph_ to hold her.

“It’s so good to see you,” Rachel murmurs, feeling her chin dig into Quinn’s shoulder as she speaks, and she pulls back apologetically, but Quinn is just smiling at her.

“I’m so glad you’re here. Thanks for taking the trek out to see me, and Sonia Sanchez.”

Rachel laughs a little, warmed by Quinn’s enthusiasm for the poet. “I’m always glad to come see you. I intend to make the best use of this pass that I can.” She gives a firm, decisive nod, and Quinn grins in response. “Santana says to say hey,” Rachel suddenly remembers, and Quinn nods, her smile changing slightly so that it’s almost mischievous. “I think she’s going to spend the weekend having Skype sex with Brittany,” Rachel announces, without really even thinking about it.

Quinn’s eyes widen and a laugh escapes, “Sometimes I don’t know how you live with her.”

A shrug and a grin, “She’s actually quite considerate, and actually pleasant once she’s had coffee. I’m more surprised that she can live with me, given how much she used to hate me.”

Quinn gnaws her lip a moment, her eye contact breaking and her gaze fixating somewhere behind Rachel’s head, “I don’t think any of us ever really hated you,” she says quietly, and her expression clears as she grabs Rachel’s rolling luggage and shoots a little smile over her shoulder, an invitation to follow.

Because they have a little extra time due to Rachel’s earlier train, they decide to eat downtown instead of on-campus (although Quinn assures her that the food is rather good, but it’s just nice to go elsewhere), deciding on a Japanese place, which has plenty of options for Rachel. Quinn takes the bill, insisting on paying since Rachel is accompanying her to the poetry reading, and even though Rachel wants to protest that she would have come visit even without the poetry reading, she lets it slide.

And by seven forty-five, they’re shuffling into one of the campus’s auditoriums and Quinn chooses a seat as close to the front as she can, frowning and attempting to situate Rachel so that she’s not directly behind tall people. Rachel grins at her consideration.

And the reading, well. Sonia Sanchez is small, and her voice is gentle when she prefaces the reading with talk of her work and herself, but when she reads…Rachel is transfixed. It’s almost like singing, the way she chants her poetry, rhythmic, her voice louder, pulsing with power. It’s enchanting, to the point that Rachel forgets to even listen to the words, too drawn up in the rhythm and the sensation of raw emotion in the woman’s voice. Feeling the expression of awe on her own face, almost before it even registers in her mind, Rachel glances at Quinn, seeing in the blonde’s profile a tremulous smile, her eyes watery.

By the end, Rachel feels her breath forced out of her lungs in a cathartic puff, and hears the sharp inhale that means Quinn just did something similar. Sonia Sanchez has switched back to her gentle speaking voice, takes a few questions, and then announces she’ll be up front to sign books, which can be purchased in the lobby.

It’s then that she and Quinn look at each other, and Quinn smiles shyly. “Did you like it?”

Rachel nods fervently, “So much more than I anticipated. It was…” But she can’t find words.

Quinn doesn’t wait for her to finish the thought, knowing, perhaps, that it wasn’t meant to be. Instead, she reaches into her shoulder bag and with a fleeting smile presses a copy of _Does Your House Have Lions?_ into Rachel’s hands. “I got this for you. It’s the first of her poetry that I read, and probably my favorite.” she looks up with a smile, “Let’s get our books signed,” she grins, producing her own, slightly more worn, copy of the same book.

“Quinn,” Rachel stares at the book in her hands, “thank you,” is all she can say, and she follows Quinn to the front of the room. Quinn beckons her to go first, and Rachel feels suddenly awkward when she finds herself standing in front of the poet. She barely knows her work, it feels almost wrong to ask for an autograph. But the poet smiles, asks her name, and they exchange a few words about the importance of love in the world and she signs, “To sister Rachel, walk beautifully in love and peace, Sonia Sanchez.”

And then Rachel stands a respectful distance away to watch as Quinn approaches, and Quinn seems nervous, but in a different way than Rachel. Quinn’s smile is watery, but the two seem to instantly connect in a way Rachel hadn’t managed, and Sonia Sanchez spends almost a minute talking to Quinn. She can’t hear everything they’re saying, but she steps closer in time to hear and barely see what Sonia Sanchez says as she signs Quinn’s book. “To sister Quinn, EBE YIYE*” at this, the poet draws an asterisk and writes at the bottom of the page, speaking as she does, “*it’ll get better!” then continues at the top, “walk beautifully in love, style, peace, Sonia Sanchez.”

As she hands the book back, Quinn whispers reverently, almost a question, “It’ll get better.”

“It will get better, sister,” Sonia Sanchez affirms with a smile, and a teary-eyed Quinn makes her way back to Rachel, and with a wavering smile, places her hand on the small of Rachel’s back to guide her away; it seems as much a gesture of affection as an insistence that Rachel not watch her fight her tears.

And Rachel wonders why she doesn’t see in Quinn what Sonia Sanchez saw immediately. What secrets Quinn still holds, what those few expressions Rachel still finds unreadable convey.

 

_And you left me shimmering_

 

He’s not sure yet what to do about it, but Blaine is worried about the New Directions.

For one thing, it’s about a month into the school year, and they still don’t have enough members. There’s him and Artie, who have joined forces in an attempt to become Glee’s co-captains. Blaine hadn’t gotten to know Artie very well until that summer, actually (not even _West Side Story_ had provided much of a chance to bond, since Artie was more an authority than a peer in that role), but it turns out they have a bit more in common than an affinity for dress shirts and attempting to rap. Sam is another strong team member, but with his job and his place on the football team, he’s pretty content to follow. Brittany and Tina are really bringing it in terms of leadership, and Blaine has to admit that the two make a surprisingly formidable team. They even seem to be becoming good friends, which surprises him, because he’s not sure what they have in common.

Rory has managed to stay in the states for another year, and Sugar is there, too, finally seeming to realize that she is more of a backing vocals type. Joe’s a quiet presence; he generally sits beside Sam and is happy to perform at any time, but doesn’t tend to offer his own suggestions. Blaine’s sure he actually spent a good deal of the summer with Sam “learning about the secular world,” both because Blaine saw him several times at the Hudson-Hummel house and because he doesn’t look completely bewildered at all of Sam’s impressions anymore (he’s also pretty sure he heard Joe saying he likes _Star Wars_ because of the “redemptive themes,” so that’s something).

Wade, who still seems to be debating living as Unique instead of just performing as her, had transferred at the beginning of the school year, and Blaine is pretty sure she’ll be a vocal powerhouse, but adjusting to the new school and to the idea of living fully as a woman seems to be preventing her from wanting to lead the club. This, Blaine understands, because gender identity is a big issue. When Wade had joined, Blaine had taken it upon himself to act as an ambassador of sorts, realizing that, even if he wasn’t extremely well-versed in transgender issues, he probably knew a little more than the rest of the club. So he’d asked Wade’s permission to ask a few questions, for the benefit of the group, and had learned that, though Unique is who Wade is inside, Wade prefers to only be referred to as such when she physically resembles Unique. However masculine Wade may look, however, she prefers feminine pronouns, at least among those she considers friends. Blaine could see the confusion on some fellow Glee clubber’s faces at this straddling of the gender binary, but Blaine had more or less understood, and sympathized, because it seemed a difficult line to walk.

However, Blaine doesn’t know how else to express this, but he misses Rachel Berry.

Because Mr. Schuester seems to be floundering.

Blaine knows, and not only from the save the date he received over the summer, that Mr. Schue has a wedding coming up, right after Thanksgiving, in fact, and that’s sure to be stressful. He remembers Kurt talking about how in previous years, Mr. Schue’s personal life sometimes would get in the way of his ability to properly lead the club, which Blaine had thought sounded strange, because the man’s passion for the club is obvious. But now that he’s seeing it firsthand, he knows that it’s happening again.

What he needs to do is figure out _what would Rachel Berry do_?

Because Rachel in the New Directions was a lot of things. Sometimes a thorn in Mr. Schue’s side, sure, but from what Blaine heard and saw, a thorn that forced him to get things done, either through her own forcefulness, or through Finn, who Mr. Schue shared some freakish kinship with.

It takes three weeks of school before Mr Schue even suggests that they start trying to recruit new members. Blaine almost wants to call the leadership competition off by that point, because they’re really not getting anywhere—Mr. Schue seems just as indecisive as ever—and they really need to switch gears to focus on recruiting more members. But then two new members join: a freshman girl who Blaine immediately ascertains is gay—the short red hair and plaid don’t really hide it, though what pushes her from possibly artsy-hipster type to gay is the fact that she says she’s interested because she heard Santana Lopez had been in this club—and a quiet sophomore who’s a second-stringer on the football team with Sam who says he has always liked music—he plays guitar, viola in orchestra, and was in concert choir in middle school. And it’s still not enough people, but it seems to take the pressure off of Mr. Schue.

Blaine wrings his hands and gripes to Kurt about this one day about two weeks later as they get coffee, and Kurt seems to ponder his concern, “That’s generally the way we function, though, Blaine. You saw Mr. Schue during an uncharacteristically high-functioning, involved year. We’re usually about as far from the Warblers as you can get. We usually just dove into competitions with our eyes closed and formulated a plan in an hour. At least last year, we’d have a plan about two days in advance.”

Blaine sighs, “I don’t know how you guys did so well your first two years.”

“Sheer talent and heart,” Kurt replies with a cheeky grin, gripping one of Blaine’s hands and moving their joined hands onto his chest.

“So what would Rachel do?” Blaine asks after a chuckle.

Kurt smirks, “She’d generally come up with a plan and browbeat everyone into following it because we didn’t have another one, but you can’t really use that strategy until you’re in the green room at Sectionals and don’t have a set list.” He taps his lip, “You say the leadership competition is distracting Mr. Schue? Concede.”

Blaine’s mouth drops open, “You’re joking, right? I was front man for the Warblers. I have the most experience in this! It should be me.”

“Yes, you were front man, but the Warblers didn’t have captains at that time. You had those council leaders or whatever, but it was mostly all very Greek and democratic and whatnot.” Kurt’s eye gleams for a moment, and then he says, “Suggest an oligarchy.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Oh, I forgot,” Kurt responds airily, with a dramatic wave of his hand, “You haven’t completed Government class yet, you’ll learn.”

With a mock-glare, Blaine gives Kurt’s shoulder a little push; sometime Kurt likes to tease him about being his “younger man.”

Kurt continues, “An oligarchy is rule by a group. Usually a class of people. It can be kinda bad, like if the upper class or a higher social caste rule over everyone else, but it could be perfect for Glee club. It’s kind of compromise between the Warbler’s council and New Direction’s traditional captains—you wouldn’t have to call full Glee meetings like the council did to get things done, but you’d have more people to share responsibility—so, like the council but less formal, I suppose. Suggest perhaps rule by those who have been involved in Glee clubs—clubs, so you’ll qualify—for more than a year? That would be you, Brittany, Tina, Artie and Sam, yeah? Or just have everyone elect a small group or something. It doesn’t matter. But make the leadership more expansive.”

“Not a bad idea,” Blaine concedes, “I’ll see if I can get Artie and possibly Sam in on it, though Sam doesn’t seem to interested in club leadership.”

“I can talk to Sam at home, try to get him interested,” Kurt offers.

“That’d be great,” Blaine smiles, kissing Kurt’s knuckles. The eyes of both boys dart around the room at the action, feeling _vulnerably_ gay, and relax when no one seems to have noticed.

Blaine approaches Artie with the idea, and he seems receptive. “I don’t think we’d win against those two, anyway,” he says, his eyes shooting to the side. “I mean, we both have good voices, but neither of us dance particularly well—no offense,” (Blaine tries not to take offense, because he doesn’t think he’s _that_ bad at dancing, and Artie moves in a wheelchair with more grace and rhythm than half the other guys), “and Tina and Brittany represent both top-notch singing and dancing, respectively. Besides. We’ve been handicapped in this fight from the start. Pun intended,” he finishes bitterly.

Frowning, Blaine asks, “You really think Mr. Schuester would have let that affect his decision?”

Artie shrugs, “Maybe he wouldn’t. But it’s a feeling I’ve been trying to shake for more than three years now. That I’d be a great lead, but won’t get the chance because I can’t dance with the lead girl the same way the other guys can.”

Blaine rubs his forehead, feeling out of his element, but then smiles, “Then let’s do this. You and I will both get the chances we deserve if we’re on the leadership board.”

Sam seems hesitant. “Kurt told me about it,” he says, “I’m not sure if I’m gonna be much help. I’ve got a lot on my plate already, and that’s not even including classes, which I’m always struggling with because of my dyslexia.” Blaine’s eyebrows shoot up; he hadn’t known this about Sam. Sam seems to hesitate, then says, “But I guess if it’s divided among like five of us, that’s less weight on my shoulders. I’ll do my best.”

“So you’re in?” Blaine asks excitedly.

“I’m in,” Sam responds with his wide grin.

And when Blaine gets a package from Rachel and Santana in the mail that afternoon, which happens to be the day before his birthday, he instantly knows how to clinch the deal.

So the next day during Glee, Blaine raises his hand and says, “Mr. Schuester, I think it’s time we finally put this co-captain competition to rest.”

He hears Tina whisper to Brittany, “Oh no. If he thinks he’s going to get the last song in, he’s got another think coming.”

Ignoring them, he stands, and a distracted Mr. Schuester says, “You’re right, Blaine, I just haven’t been able to decide, you all are so good. I don’t know if I’m ready to.”

“You just haven’t been able to decide because you don’t want to admit the girls are better,” Sugar announces, then covers her mouth with one hand, “Oops,” she says slyly, her smirk betraying her. Brittany slides her hand over for a discrete low five.

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Schuester,” Blaine says smoothly, ignoring Sugar, and moves to the front to address everyone gathered there. “We’re a team,” he begins, “First and foremost, we’re a team. So I think what we need is a team to lead us, a team of our most experienced members.” At this, Artie wheels next to him and Sam unfolds himself from his chair to stand on his other side. Brittany and Tina look shocked and angry; a third is just unfair.

“Ladies,” Blaine says, and Artie and Sam both hold out their hands to them. Exchanging surprised and confused looks, Tina and Brittany approach the front, and Blaine gestures to the band.

It’s not Donna Summer, but it’s the disco tune that popped to mind first when he saw the sheet music. “We Are Family,” starts playing, and Artie and Sam gamely sing along with him, “we are family, I got all my sisters with me,” with winks at the girls.

Blaine takes the verses, having learned all the words the night before, while Tina, Brittany, Artie and Sam improvise dancing around him and join in on the chorus, which they learn easily. He sees a few others singing in their seats and with a gesture, he brings the whole club up to sing and dance along.

When the song ends, the rest of the club sits down, but Blaine, Sam and Artie stay standing, and grab Brittany and Tina’s hands to keep them up there, too, Brittany grinning, Tina with happy tears shining in her eyes. Blaine says, “If you’d allow it, Mr. Schuester, New Directions, we’d like to be your leadership board. We think we’d represent a broad range of genre and talent.”

“What a great idea, Blaine,” Mr. Schuester gushes, and for a moment, Blaine can see the excited spark that used to so often burn in his eyes, “I accept. That is, if the rest of the team agrees.”

Applause is their answer.

And really, Blaine thinks, this is the best birthday present he could ask for. At least, that’s what he thinks until that night with Kurt.

They’re both so focused on the other. Blaine knows he’s trying to forget that it will be awhile before they can be together like this again, and Kurt must be thinking along the same lines, but their movements are unhurried, and the way Kurt runs his hands slowly, reverently down Blaine’s body forces him to arch his back to try to get _closer_ , and soon he really does forget.

And even in the afterglow, it’s more about how _good_ they feel together, and how much they love each other, and less about the looming end to their daily contact.

Kurt’s leaving three days later. He knows this. Puck, seeming to feel a bit of wanderlust, had offered to drive Kurt in his truck, and even if Blaine didn’t have school, he wouldn’t be able to go along. The truck can really only seat two.

And that’s also weird, Blaine thinks, that Puck and Kurt have actually been spending a lot of time together as of late. If Puck had ever seriously tripped his gaydar—he admits it’s happened a few times, but so incidentally he’s sure they’re flukes—he might have gotten protective, or jealous. But as it stands, it’s just surprising. All Kurt has said is that Puck is going through some things, and he’s been the one available to help Puck keep his mind off things, and that frequently Puck will end up hanging out with Sam when Sam gets home from school instead. They’re better friends than they ever were in high school, for sure, but Kurt’s pretty sure they’ll never be really _close_.

After school two days later, Blaine helps Puck and Kurt load up the truck. It helps that Kurt is going to buy a new mattress when he gets there, and that he had a new, smaller vanity delivered to the apartment (Blaine had seen the text from Santana about the “big-ass package” that had arrived and that if Kurt was worried about “ruining his manicure,” she’d use her “lesbian powers” to help him put together his furniture), because otherwise there’s no way all his things will fit. It also helps that Blaine had been helping him choose which clothes to bring and which to leave behind for the past several weeks.

“Nice of you to join us,” Puck grunts as he and Kurt wiggle Kurt’s dresser into place in the bed of the truck and Puck begins tying it in place. “Though, Elton John here is no slouch. Dude’s got stamina,” Puck winks at Blaine.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Blaine quips in response, which just widens Puck’s grin.

“Boys,” Kurt chastises, sounding half-amused and half-exasperated. He wipes at his forehead, “Ugh. Perspiration is _so_ bad for my skin.”

“Take a break, wash up,” Puck says kindly, “Blaine and I can get it from here, there’s not much left.”

Kurt bites his lip for a moment, perhaps debating how feminine he’d seem if he took a break, perhaps feeling guilty for letting others finish the work, but ultimately he nods and heads into the house. Blaine watches as Puck secures the dresser with a series of ropes and bungie cords and, to save room, places each drawer back in and ties them securely into place.

He glances at Blaine, “I told him it would be best to tape these babies in, but apparently this is a designer dresser. Didn’t even know those existed.”

Blaine grins, “I doubt it’s the same as in the sense of designer clothes, but I’m not surprised. He’s meticulous.”

Puck hops down from the bed of the truck, and he and Blaine head into the house. Puck’s right, there’s not much left, as all Kurt’s furniture is already in the truck (new twin bed frame, dresser, small collapsible bookshelf), and most of what’s left is just boxes, mostly of clothes, some of books and DVDs; Kurt’s luggage, which will mostly contain his cosmetic products, and computer bag will go in the truck tomorrow. Puck takes charge of maneuvering the boxes where he thinks they should go, attempting to ensure the furniture will have some extra support so it won’t strain the cords much. He then gets Blaine to help him spread the tarp over everything and secure it in place.

“Will you even be able to see out the back?” Blaine asks in concern.

Puck shrugs, “Probably not, but it’s no problem. I’m good.”

Blaine bites his lip, but says nothing. Puck parks his truck inside the garage to keep everything safe and, politely declining Carole’s offer to stay for dinner, borrows Finn’s truck to head back to his house.

Blaine stays awake all night, lying next to Kurt in the darkness, feeling each shift as Kurt tangles and untangles them, kicking off his blankets or snuggling closer as his body shifts from hot to cold. He doesn’t even really have the energy to pretend to wake up when Kurt’s phone alarm blares a Culture Club song at 4:30. Instead, Blaine pads to the kitchen to start coffee. Burt and Carole aren’t even up yet; they’ll wake up in about an hour. Blaine sits at the counter and drinks cup after cup, while Kurt spends forty-five minutes in the bathroom doing his morning routine. Blaine has wondered how he’ll do this while sharing one bathroom with two seemingly high-maintenance girls, but he hasn’t dared to ask.

Puck arrives around 5:30, grunting a greeting to Blaine (still sitting, drinking coffee) and Kurt (having toast and coffee for breakfast), shaking hands with Burt (making his own breakfast of oatmeal with fruit—grimacing slightly as he does) and kissing Carole on the cheek (supervising Burt’s breakfast while sipping on coffee). Kurt shoves his dishes in the dishwasher a moment later and scampers back to his room to pack his remaining belongings. Sam wanders sleepily into the kitchen just as Kurt leaves with hair wet from his shower and slaps Puck’s shoulder in greeting, and Puck slings an arm around his shoulders in a rare show of affection. Puck accepts Carole’s offering of breakfast and she sets to making him and a grateful Sam (who attempts to insist he can take care of his own breakfast) a plate of eggs—Blaine thinks she misses cooking breakfast for Finn. Blaine pours them both a cup of coffee, not sure what else to do. He knows he can’t be alone with Kurt right now.

And at about ten til six, Kurt is in the front room with his rolling suitcase and matching shoulder bag and toiletry bag, and before Blaine can really take in the sight of Kurt, about to leave him, everyone is hugging. Carole is hugging Puck and thanking him for taking Kurt, while Burt, as he hugs Kurt firmly, is pressing money into Kurt’s hand and telling him not to let Puck pay for any gas. Sam wraps Kurt into a full, almost intimate hug, thanking him for being a great surrogate brother—Blaine sees Kurt’s lip tremble at this, and then Kurt is being surrounded by and kissed by his parents, and a tear is falling.

Then Kurt turns to Blaine, and Blaine feels his heart in his throat. He wants to ask Kurt to step away, knowing how he feels about public displays of affection, because all he really wants to do right now is kiss the life out of Kurt, kiss him so hard that he’ll reconsider leaving, just for a moment (because Blaine knows he shouldn’t stay in Lima, he just wants to believe he could be a strong enough force to make him _want_ to). But Kurt leans into him and kisses him, so softly and gently, their mouths pressing carefully, intimately, for several seconds, and it’s not a fireworks kiss, it’s a candle. A little light in the dark, like a promise, like a lantern to guide him home.

When Blaine opens his eyes, he sees nothing but love shining in Kurt’s, and nothing but raw affection for them both in the eyes of the… _family_ watching them—because, really, at this point, Puck and Sam are just as much family. And after a moment, Sam lightens to moment by elbowing Puck and murmuring, “Isn’t it cool that they’re such good friends?”

The laughter is welcome, and Blaine rests his forehead against Kurt’s shoulder before Kurt draws him into an embrace and holds him close. As Puck and Sam chuckle, Kurt whispers, “I’ll see you for Thanksgiving. I love you, Blaine-bear.”

Blaine laughs again at Kurt’s nickname—he certainly isn’t a bear—and responds, “Love you too, Kurtsy.”

Then Puck is tucking Kurt’s luggage into the bed of the truck and refastening the tarp covering everything and the two are jumping in, waving and honking softly a few times as they drive off. Sam puts a hand on Blaine’s shoulder as they watch the truck drive out of sight.

Sighing, Blaine turns to Carole and Burt, “Is it okay if I get ready for school here? I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to my house and back in time.” Blaine’s house is on the very edge of two school districts: McKinley and the school he’d attended before Dalton.

“Of course,” Carole responds.

Sam lowers his head to try to catch Blaine’s eye, “You look beat, man. I’ll give you a ride to school, too, if you want.”

Blaine smiles. It’s strange how much he loves being here even when Kurt is gone. “Thanks, Sam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from Grimes, “Oblivion” and Passion Pit, “Moth’s Wings.” Other songs include Sister Sledge, “We Are Family.” I imagine Culture Club, “Karma Chameleon” for Kurt’s phone alarm. I feel compelled to mention “Undeniable” because of Passion Pit, though the story rekindled my enjoyment of Passion Pit rather than introduced me to it.
> 
> The Sonia Sanchez scene is quite reminiscent of my own interaction with her at a school event, so I don’t feel bad for borrowing her. She’s lovely.


	11. Wait for me I have to go now into the big city

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Mild Buffy spoilers in this update.

_Wait for me I have to go now into the big city_

 

The drive to New York is unexpectedly pleasant, even if he and Puck don’t talk much. They listen to a lot of music; Kurt huffs when Puck puts on Motley Crue but ultimately smiles, and Puck grumbles a bit when Kurt plays the Spice Girls but ultimately ends up tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Puck also doesn’t seem to mind the fact that he’s driving the whole way. Kurt offers, knowing pretty well that he’ll be rejected, and as he predicted, Puck says, “Dude, Finn’s lucky I let him touch this when we road tripped. No offense, but this is my baby.”

“I understand completely,” Kurt nods, because he does; growing up with his father means he understands very well the bond between man and car. He may not have yet found his auto-soulmate, but he gets it.

At one point, Puck asks out of the blue, “Heard much from Finn?”

Kurt shrugs, “A couple letters. Carole and Dad get more, and he’s called them a few times. He doesn’t much like writing letters, but he’ll do it because he misses us.”

Puck nods, an unreadable expression on his face, but it’s one Kurt doesn’t want to ask about—the way Puck’s eyebrows then furrow, Kurt figures it’s best to drop the subject. He knows Puck must miss his best friend.

It’s early evening when they near Kurt’s new apartment, and Puck curses as he navigates through the cramped rush-hour New York streets, and Kurt screeches directions at him when they finally get moving and get stuck in the flow of traffic, always seeming to almost miss their turns. Puck careens around like a racecar driver, boxes jolting in the bed of the truck, which earns him horns and middle fingers that he gives right back. “If you scraped my dresser, I swear to god!” Kurt shouts, but then he can’t help but smile, “However, I do think you’d fit in here,” he says when they have a moment to breathe.

Puck gives a deep chuckle, “Being an asshole in a small city makes you a normal here, huh?”

Kurt texts Rachel that they’ve arrived and within a minute, Rachel and Santana are bursting out of the building and smothering him and Puck in hugs. The hug from Rachel—which knocks the air out of him—he expects, but Santana, barely dressed in a tank top and short shorts, giving him a firm hug, and giving Puck a one-armed hug and a peck on the cheek, is completely unexpected. He and Puck share the same surprised look.

They’re kind of a strange group, Kurt realizes. Rachel is…well, she’s still his best friend, even if things have been weird, and he wants badly to work on that. Santana…she’s not someone he’s close to, but as the other token McKinley Gay, he feels an inescapable connection with her. She and Puck are ex-fuck buddies, _weirdly_ enough, and seem to oscillate between annoyance and affection. He and Puck don’t have much in common at all except a measure of mutual respect—he couldn’t help but respect the guy who showed up to Glee in drag because he thought _somebody_ had to do it. And Puck and Rachel? Another set of weird not-quite-exes. But, he has to admit that he’s noticed Puck had always had Rachel’s back. Even when Finn was too embarrassed to stick up for his own girlfriend in Glee, Puck would—he was probably the first of them to admit to actually liking Rachel. And Puck had been instrumental in the Barbra-vention. He can’t help but be happy to see the two of them reunited.

And Rachel and Santana? He guesses he’ll find out. They had been slightly awkward, but friendly together all summer, which had been weird enough, but now they’ll be sharing a room? Kurt’s morbidly fascinated by this development.

Puck and Santana grab Kurt’s dresser, which makes Kurt feel slightly guilty so he huffs, “Oh sure, let the lesbian take the heavy stuff,” which just earns him a Puck leer and a sarcastic Santana scowl. He and Rachel drag the bedframe pieces out, but wait until Puck and Santana come back before heading up, and they continue that way, making sure to never leave the truck unattended.

After everything is in the house, Kurt and Puck get a brief tour. Puck mostly just nods in approval at everything, but Kurt tells them he wishes the living room furniture actually matched but he sort of likes the wall decorations and asks if he can rearrange and add his own; after both rolling their eyes at the slight, Rachel and Santana agree. He checks out Rachel and Santana’s room, which is a little bit tight with both of their furniture but not uncomfortably so. Kurt nods in approval at Rachel’s furniture, which matches, and her side of the room is pristine, and raises an eyebrow at Santana’s side, which is still pretty messy what with how recently she moved everything into this room. “Well,” he drawls, “Now we know not to trust Santana with any decorating.”

Santana socks his arm and he smiles—it’s funny how much she reminds him of Puck sometimes—and then she gestures wildly at Rachel’s side of the room, “Well, would you really trust her to do it? The ratio of pink is way off…then again, I’m of the opinion that _any_ pink is too much.” She _is_ exaggerating, because really it’s mainly Rachel’s bedspread that is pink, but he laughs as Rachel rolls her eyes anyway.

Rachel offers to order some pizza and Santana offers to put together his bed frame and his vanity while he and Puck run to the mattress store—which he realizes just then is only open for another hour—and he hastily agrees. Luckily, he finds one he likes pretty quickly, and again he’s happy for Puck’s truck, which makes the whole experience so much easier. He thanks Puck—for probably the twelfth time—for coming with him, and yet again, Puck just grins and shrugs him off. “I was born a rambling man.” Kurt recognizes the song as something his dad listens to, and just rolls his eyes as Puck sings the whole thing a capella on the way back to the apartment. Eventually, though, Kurt joins in on the chorus. Why not?

When they return and Rachel lets them in—Kurt hadn’t thought to grab his own set of keys from the key hanger by the door—he can hear Santana cursing Ikea in Spanglish as she wrestles with his vanity, but his bedframe is up, so he and Puck put the mattress down immediately. He starts unpacking what he can, working around Santana, looking for his sheets, while Rachel yaps away at Puck in the kitchen under the pretense of getting him a glass of water. Kurt is only half-listening, but he gathers that Rachel’s classes are going well and then he shuts her out completely. The heat of jealousy he thought he’d gotten over fills his chest like heartburn at the thought of Rachel at NYADA.

Instead, he focuses on Santana, and after making his bed, he squats down on the carpet next to her and they puzzle out the instructions together. She’s almost done, and between them they make short work of the vanity, finishing it just as the buzzer sounds, signaling the arrival of their dinner.

As Rachel sets the pizzas and the two liter of Coke down on the kitchen counter—one vegan with veggies and one meat-lovers—Puck’s eyebrows wiggle and he says, “I brought a housewarming gift.” He digs around in his duffle bag next to the couch in the living room for a few moments before extracting two brown paper bags—inside which are one bottle of Italian prosecco and one bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Noah Puckerman!” Rachel shrieks, “You just transported alcohol—illegally purchased _by_ someone underage to be _given_ to other someones underage, one of whom is _still a minor_ —across several state lines! Do you have any idea how much trouble you could’ve gotten in?!”

“Chill, babe,” Puck says coolly, “Nothin’s gonna happen now that it’s here.” Rachel huffs, while Santana snatches the bottle of whiskey and makes herself a Jack and Coke. Puck turns to Kurt, eyes twinkling. “Wine?” When Kurt agrees, Rachel sighs heavily and extracts two wine glasses—which Kurt has to admit he’s surprised she owns—and requests a glass for herself. Puck, of course, makes his own Jack and Coke.

Santana is the first to dig into the pizza, grabbing the biggest slice of meat-lovers and moaning exaggeratedly as she takes a bite. “Sorry,” she groans around the food in her mouth, and Puck shoots her a half-leer, “It’s just been so long since I had this much meat in my mouth.” When Puck’s leer just gets wider, she slaps his shoulder, “God, shut the fuck up—sorry Berry” she interjects as Rachel winces at her language; Kurt and Puck share a shocked look.

“How has Rachel Berry got you whipped?” Kurt asks bluntly; he’s only had a sip of prosecco but somehow he already feels different.

Santana rolls her eyes and Rachel titters behind her hands, “Anyway, the whole point of my comment was that I eat like partial vegetarian now because of living with the vegan fascist. So Kurt, I hope you either know how to cook meat or are okay with also being a partial vegetarian.”

Kurt shrugs; he has a slice of meat-lovers and a slice of vegan on his plate. “I actually don’t care to cook meat. I picked up some cooking after my mother died to try to keep mealtimes as normal as they could be, but Dad did most of the meat cooking, and he and Carole have cooked a lot less meat since his heart attack. I try to indulge rarely anyway. It’s bad for your skin.”

Santana sighs, “Figures. Well, it’s cool. I usually get meat when we order food, so it works.”

They devour the pizza and turn on some terrible movie on Netflix that they only half watch as they begin to work on the wine and whiskey. For some reason, Rachel also puts her iPod on shuffle, so they really can’t even hear the TV over the music, but it’s okay, because they have plenty to talk about. Kurt thinks he’s probably pretty drunk, because everything’s funnier and he thinks he’s talking more than usual, but Puck seems normal, Santana just seems mellow—Kurt keeps waiting for her to cry—and Rachel…well, she’s definitely drunk, and Kurt thinks she’s sat in everyone’s lap so far.

He and Santana somehow start laughing hysterically over Ellen Degeneres’s _shoes_ , of all things, and yeah, Kurt would normally cringe at sneakers with a pantsuit, but he’s always given Ellen a pass, because she just manages to make it look dapper. And then Santana makes a joke about her wearing cleats and they laugh until they can’t breathe, while Puck and Rachel just stare, bewildered, until Kurt gasps out, “You’re the Taylor Swift to my Ellen,” and Santana hugs him, her laughter hiccupping a little until he’s scared she’s going to actually start crying this time.

Then she pulls back with a confused expression, “How the _fuck_ are you the Ellen in this situation?” she asks, then laughs more, “And, what, is Berry Portia?”

“Kurt _is_ my…well…gay hetero lifemate?” Rachel interrupts, her features pinching in confusion as she struggles with the term.

Santana rolls her eyes, still chuckling, “Alright, alright, Kurt, you can be Ellen.”

It’s around ten-thirty when Puck, without preamble, grunts, “Shit,” and fishes for his phone in his pocket. It’s the way he squints and fumbles with it that finally clues Kurt into the fact that Puck is drunk, too. Rachel is currently snuggled against Santana, who looks at her with affection she isn’t trying to hide, and they’re engrossed in some weird conversation. Kurt hears Puck’s phone ringing, and it takes him a moment to realize the phone is on speaker; Puck is frowning and the phone is held up to his ear, so Kurt isn’t sure he meant to turn on speaker-phone, but he doesn’t make a move to turn it off.

“Hello?” a scratchy voice answers distractedly.

“’Sup, MILF?” Puck drawls, but he’s still frowning slightly.

With a long-suffering sigh the voice—Quinn, Kurt realizes—responds, “Puck. What do you want?”

“Guess where I am?” Puck challenges, his smirk now slipping back into place.

“Not Lima?” is Quinn’s short reply.

“I’m kickin’ it here at Kurt, Santana and Rachel’s,” Puck grins.

At the sound of her name, Rachel perks up, and as Quinn starts to respond, Rachel is lurching toward Puck, shouting as she moves. “Is that Quinn?! Hi, Quinn! We love you!” she shouts this last part at the phone, still held next to Puck’s ear. Puck winces and Rachel grins triumphantly.

“Puck,” Quinn’s voice is ice, “Did you get Rachel drunk?”

“I’m not drunk!” Rachel hollers, and Santana has the presence of mind to stand up and grab her elbow, guiding her to the kitchen to get a drink of water.

“Hey, she’s fine,” Puck defends, a whine in his tone, as Rachel leaves, “No one here is gonna hurt her. We all love her.”

Quinn exhales and then huffs, “Yeah. Guess you’re right. Just be careful with her.”

“Of course,” Puck says, eyebrows twitching in what looks like hurt, “So what’re you doin’, Mama? Did we interrupt you from a party?”

“No,” Quinn grumps, “My first big paper is due for my English class on Monday, and my roommate and I are spending the whole weekend working on them. That’s why I’m not there to welcome Kurt to his new home—tell him hey, by the way. And send my love to everybody.”

“Hey, Quinn!” Kurt calls in response, and he can hear the smile in her voice as she responds in kind.

“Gotcha,” Puck responds, “I’ll tell everybody you love them. Sexually.”

Quinn huffs, “Exactly,” she grunts sarcastically, “I need to get back to my paper. Thanks for calling, Puck. Be safe on your way back to Lima.”

“No prob, Q. Good luck on the paper.”

At this moment, Rachel comes back into the room and screeches, “Bye, Quinn! We love you!”

“I love and miss you, Q!”” Santana shouts.

They receive a dry chuckle and a “See you guys in a few weeks!” before Quinn hangs up.

“God, I miss her,” Santana says again, her throat sounding tight, “And Brittany. God, I miss Brittany. I’m gonna call her,” sniffling, Santana reaches into her pocket for her phone, and Kurt instantly knows that drunk dialing Brittany is a bad idea.

“No!” he says, touching Santana’s arm, “Santana, she’s probably asleep. Isn’t tomorrow the monthly Saturday Cheerios practice?” He has no idea if it is, but maybe he’ll be lucky.

Santana sighs, “You’re right,” she grumbles, “But, god…” she buries her face in her hands.

And in response, Rachel jumps up and suggests they watch _Buffy_. Kurt and Puck both roll their eyes, but then Santana perks up slightly and mutters, “It’s actually kind of good. Kurt, you probably like David Boreanaz, and he’s all young and buff, and Puck, you probably like Sarah Michelle Gellar—she’s pretty hot in this.”

“Plus it’s just a well-told story with very relatable themes of autonomy versus—” Rachel begins to ramble.

“Yeah, a well-told story with themes of hotties and vampires. Let’s go, Berry. Just start where we left off in season two.”

They’re about three-quarters of the way through season two, apparently, and they turn on an episode that just…it’s insane. David Boreanaz is hot and evil, and is apparently stalking Buffy and her redheaded friend, and it’s dark and grim and gritty, and then he _kills_ a woman, and lays her out for the British man to find…and by the end of the episode, Kurt thinks he’s trembling more from emotion than from alcohol, and he’s completely drawn in.

But they’ve had such an early day, that despite his fascination, and, he thinks, Puck’s grudging interest, they’re not up for much more. Rachel also seems ready for bed, and Santana gets on her computer. Puck sprawls out on the couch, telling Santana not to worry about any light or sound she makes while still awake, he can sleep through anything.

Kurt barely makes it through his moisturizing routine before falling in bed. He also barely remembers to text Blaine, though he’s sure Blaine is asleep—he’s pretty sure Blaine hadn’t slept well the night before.

 

 **Sir Kurt Hummel: In New York and had**  
**a great first night. Miss you terribly and**  
**love you. Talk to you tomorrow?**

 

He doesn’t wait for a response and drifts off to sleep almost immediately.

 

_Sacrifice turns to revenge_

 

Having Kurt there changes things up somewhat.

The most obvious change is apparent when Santana sets her laptop down an hour or so before dawn the morning after Kurt arrives, watching Puck to be sure she hasn’t awoken him, and heads into what is now her bedroom. She opens the door carefully. There’s just enough light from the street coming through the curtain for her to be able to see in the room, and she can see Rachel sprawled in bed, wrapped in a sheet, her blanket kicked to the foot of her bed. As she closes the door, watching Rachel to be sure she isn’t waking her, she notices…Rachel appears to be naked.

She can’t _see_ anything specific, just Rachel’s shoulders, and the fact that there are no tank top straps or anything on them. She supposes Rachel could be wearing shorts—the one leg sticking out from her sheet isn’t exposed enough to tell Santana that—but Santana swallows at the sight. Is it really okay that she’s about to go to sleep two yards away from a topless woman?

But then, as Santana walks quietly to her bed, she decides _fuck it_. She likes to sleep naked, too, and maybe she’s not okay with being totally naked right now, but she strips down to her panties.

As she settles into her bed, she hears Rachel rustling about a bit, and then a head of messy dark hair lifts sleepily and gazes at her from across the room.

“Sorry,” Santana says, just loud enough that she hopes she can be heard over the air conditioner that’s simply functioning as a fan right now—they really need to take it out of the window soon because it’s definitely gotten chilly, but it’s useful tonight, because the apartment feels so warm.

“It’s okay,” Rachel says quietly, then glances down at herself and rubs her forehead. “I seem to have elected to sleep in just panties last night. I blame the alcohol. I’m sorry.” Holding the sheet to her chest, she gropes around on the floor for her shirt.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Santana grumbles sleepily, “What do you think I’m wearing? Wear whatever you want to bed, Berry. I intend to. And if we flash each other, well, whatever. I’m not gonna beat off about it.”

“Oh,” Rachel exhales slightly, “Oh, okay. I do usually sleep in minimal clothing. At least until winter.”

“That’s great,” Santana mumbles disinterestedly, nestling herself into her blankets as Rachel pulls on a shirt and shorts and goes to the bathroom. When she gets back and crawls back into bed, wishing Santana goodnight, Santana is already half asleep.

Other changes feel like they happen quickly, but they’re not startling or disorienting. Rachel and Santana’s bedroom becomes much more of simply a bedroom. Santana hadn’t spent that much time in her room unless she needed privacy, preferring to spend time in the living room instead, but Rachel had been doing much of her homework in the room. Now, though, Rachel’s desk is in the living room, and she’s been doing most of her work there. Kurt doesn’t spend much time in his room, either; his laptop has taken up residence next to Santana’s on the coffee table. In fact, for the first week or so, Kurt just watches Netflix, as far as Santana can tell. He catches up with them in _Buffy_ , which takes him two days, then seems to be choosing random documentaries. She’s a little worried about the fact that she doesn’t think he’s left the apartment once, and some days she’s not sure he has showered.

However, Kurt does sometimes disappear when Rachel is working on homework. Santana’s brow furrows when she notices this. She worries that he’s still jealous, because Rachel does occasionally like to discuss her assignments. She doesn’t want conflict in her home.

There’s one day that Rachel moves from her desk to sit on the armchair with her laptop, and begins to stress to Santana about the paper she has due the next day. Santana watches Kurt gather up his laptop and head to his room, and notes that Rachel seems too distracted to really notice. Santana doesn’t know what to say, except to tell Rachel, “You’ll be fine.”

About twenty minutes later, she registers that she’s been hearing the rapid clacking of keys as Rachel types for a good ten minutes now, and looks up to see Rachel grinning. “Making good progress?” Santana asks.

Rachel’s grin turns sheepish. “Sort of. Mostly I’ve been talking to Quinn, but going over the assignment with her has really helped me organize my thoughts.”

Santana looks at Rachel, and notes that her posture is relaxed, her smile confident. Somehow, Quinn has reassured her. She’s grateful—she’s not exactly good at that.

There’s also a particular morning when she gets home from work. Rachel doesn’t always get up at six-ish anymore; she often sleeps until eight these days, but sometimes she insists on waking up early to perform what had been her high school morning routine. When she does, she and Santana are often good at working around each other in the bathroom. Today, however, Kurt is awake early for no reason—he sleeps extremely erratically, Santana has realized—and there’s a line in front of the bathroom.

Santana folds her arms grumpily; she just wants to brush her teeth and wash her face so she can go to bed. She can hear the shower running, can see Kurt’s impatience, and finally pushes past him to knock, “Berry?” she calls, “Stay in the shower, we’re coming in!”

Not waiting for a response, she pushes open the door, “Santana?” Rachel calls uncertainly.

“Don’t worry, we can’t see you, but I needs to brush my teeth so I can get in my goddamn bed and I don’t feel like waiting for your ass. Oh, and Kurt is awake for some reason.”

“Can I pee before you go in?” Kurt asks a little bit petulantly.

Santana sighs and shrugs, letting him, and when he comes out, she goes in to brush her teeth. Kurt comes back a moment later, clutching his own towel and leaning against the doorframe.

In the middle of brushing her teeth, she hears the shower shut off, and one of Rachel’s arms reach out and grab her towel. After a few moments, her arm reaches out again to grab her bathrobe, and Rachel steps out from the shower with her hair wrapped in the towel and the robe on.

“You okay?” Santana asks around her toothbrush.

“I’m fine,” Rachel responds, “I…hadn’t thought about Kurt being awake and hadn’t quite realized what time it was when I got in. But I am fine with having people in the bathroom when I shower.” She glances at Kurt, “Can we just make an agreement here that we can work around each other in the bathroom? I have a feeling this will happen again.”

Kurt shrugs, “Well, I’m not showering _with_ any of you or showing you my delicate man flower, but otherwise, I am in agreement.”

Shuddering at Kurt’s unnecessarily evocative description of his junk, Santana agrees, and Rachel nods, smiling, and heads to their room. Somehow, Kurt, perhaps through his maleness or just the fact that he takes the residence from company to a crowd, has completely destroyed their concept of modesty. Not that Santana has much of one anyway. She _was_ a Cheerio, after all.

She reflects that in living with someone, you get to know them far better than any other way. It’s partly the funny things, like the fact that she and Rachel own the exact same hair straightener and use the same leave-in conditioner, and, even more amusing, the fact that she and Kurt use the same nightly facial cleansing cloths, and sometimes buy the same body wash.

It’s also the irritations. The worst part about living with Kurt is that it turns out he’s a slight slob. It’s weird, because his room is immaculate, either because he doesn’t spend that much time in it or because he’s more careful with his personal space. But Santana has to reign in her temper when she wakes up and has to shift aside a pile of dishes on the coffee table to make room for her breakfast, or when she goes into the kitchen and stares at dishes in the sink—not even soaking, just sitting there with food caking on. Rachel is pretty good at cleaning up after herself—Santana occasionally notices half-full cups of water scattered around, weirdly like the little girl in _Signs_ , but it’s mostly on Rachel’s things, like on her desk or on her bedside table. Kurt, though, makes her gnaw her lip. She never realized she was a neat freak, because her side of the room is never particularly spotless.

It’s been generally nice to have Kurt around, though. Especially due to what happens less than a week after he moves in.

Santana wakes up in the mid-afternoon, as usual, and shuffles out of her room. Kurt is watching a documentary about Elmo from _Sesame Street_ , for some reason, and she settles next to him on the couch with her breakfast, half-watching and half-checking Facebook. It’s not long before Rachel bustles in, clutching the mail.

“Looks like bills,” she reports after greeting them both, sifting through the envelopes. Then she freezes, and seems to go pale.

“What?” Santana prompts.

Wordlessly, Rachel shows them the envelope. Santana is only able to read that it’s addressed to Rachel and that the return address is “Pvt. Hudson” before Kurt is shooting up out of his seat, and Rachel is snatching the envelope back to her chest.

“What is that?” Kurt asks coldly.

“Evidence suggests a letter from Finn,” Rachel responds snidely.

“Oh, damn,” Kurt murmurs, “I wasn’t thinking when I gave him my new address. Of course he knew I was living with you…”

“And of course he wanted it to keep in touch with _you_ ,” Santana can’t help but growl at Kurt, “Throw it away, Berry.”

Rachel nods distractedly, but makes no move to do so. Instead, she drops the two bills on the coffee table and walks into their bedroom with her letter, closing the door firmly behind her.

Santana and Kurt stare after her, then look at each other.

“I want to be mad at you, but it’s not your fault. Of course you want to keep in touch with your brother,” Santana mutters, “But goddamn it, I can _not_ live with a Rachel Berry pining for army guy Finn Hudson.”

“I know,” Kurt mutters, “But maybe it’s a friendly letter.”

Santana nods, and relaxes somewhat. A friendly letter could possibly be helpful, right?

After about a week and a half, Kurt finally leaves the house; Santana wakes up to find he’s gone. Rachel also receives two more letters from Finn, which…both times these letters arrive, she and Kurt see each other before Rachel comes home, and stress about it. They both wish they could throw the letters out, but it’s not their place to do so, so instead, feeling sick, they leave the letters on the coffee table for Rachel. By now, they know these are not friendly letters, and Kurt can barely mask his hurt that Finn hasn’t written to him yet.

 

_I know you hear me loud_

 

Kurt continues to disappear for the next few days, until Friday, when Santana wakes up, relieved that her work week is over. She and Helen had had a conversation the previous evening about their “types,” and something about that had felt so _wrong_ , probably the fact that Santana had kept her answer simple—that she doesn’t really have one (falling in love with one woman does not a type make, right?)—because she hadn’t wanted to mention Brittany for whatever reason. So far, she has not told Helen that she has a girlfriend, and she can’t figure out why. Santana realizes she just doesn’t know how to have other lesbians for friends, doesn’t know where the lines are, and suddenly just feels so _young_. She hasn’t been ashamed of Brittany, or ashamed to be in love with her, for awhile now (and, really, she was more ashamed of _herself_ , because she’s always thought Brittany is amazing), but for some reason, maybe because Helen is a little older (twenty-two), but treats Santana like she’s the same age, she’s afraid trying to explain that she’s in love with a girl who is still in high school and is eleven hours away will just make her seem like such a _kid_. She’s glad to have the weekend to look forward to to get her mind off this, and when she exits her room, the living room is full: Kurt, Rachel and Quinn are all laughing together. Rachel had wanted to have a Halloween gathering for them—a _Buffy_ themed one, so she hadn’t invited any school friends—and apparently it’s Quinn’s fall break, although she had waited to come up until the weekend so as not to get in Rachel’s way during her classes.

To compound her weird feeling, though, Santana had also asked Helen to buy some alcohol for her for this gathering—which Helen had been all too happy to do. Asking that kind of favor from a coworker had seemed, in retrospect, a bit too personal. And they’re work friends. That’s all.

She gets a hug from Quinn, which she accepts with less griping than last time they saw each other, and settles onto the couch with her breakfast. Kurt asks Rachel if she checked the mail on her way back from meeting Quinn at the train station, and offers to get it when she replies, somewhat nervously, Santana thinks, in the negative. When Kurt comes back up the stairs, he tosses Rachel a letter—another letter from Finn. This makes, what, Santana thinks, four in like a week?

Rachel’s breath catches as she grabs the letter. Quinn peeks at it, brow furrowed, and Rachel gathers it up and goes into her room. Quinn gives Santana and Kurt a look that is half-disappointed and half-petrified and half-furious—a look so potent and rife with emotion that it has three halves—and Rachel returns quickly—she must have just stashed the letter somewhere, Santana thinks. Santana can see each person attempt to put what just happened out of their mind; Rachel smiles theatrically and smoothes her skirt, Quinn smiles primly and gets up to get a glass of water, and Kurt purses his lips and turns to Santana.

“Oh!” he says, “I told Rachel and Quinn this before you woke up, but I have good news. I got a job!”

“Oh, yeah?” Santana grins, “Where?”

Kurt chuckles a little, “A vintage clothing store slash thrift store slash costume store. I made it just in time for Halloween hiring—even though I’ll only work for like two days before Halloween actually happens—but they were also looking to fill a more permanent position and I think my sense of style impressed them.”

“I’ll have to come check it out,” Santana says, “Maybe I’ll let you be a fashion consultant.”

“Oh my god, would you?” Kurt exclaims, “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to burn your work uniforms.”

Santana frowns. Since her rent had dropped and she had some extra money, she had bought a few pairs of men’s cargo pants—because women’s pockets are pathetic, and she found she needs lots of pockets for the tools and tape measurers and things she’s expected to keep on her at her job—not to mention things like her wallet; there was no way she was leaving a purse anywhere unattended in the store, even locked in a locker. The pants are slim cut, so they could kind of pass for women’s pants if not for the extraneous crotch room, and whatever, Santana thinks they actually make her ass look great. “Whatever, Kurt. I still know how to look good, there’s just no point in trying to at work. What happened to fashion has no gender?”

“That is _not_ fashion.”

“It’s just for work. It’s functional.”

Kurt barks out a laugh, “God, when did you get this gay?” Quinn snorts into her glass of water, and Rachel tries to look disapproving.

“I’d say since I grew a mullet in elementary school, but maybe it’s more like the first time Brittany went do—“

“Okay!” Kurt claps, interrupting her, “What say we start celebrating Halloween?”

Their plan is to just have a relaxing party and a _Buffy_ marathon to celebrate tonight—though Quinn is gunning for a few good _X-Files_ episodes thrown in as well, and she keeps muttering about a really terrifying first season episode called “Squeeze,” but that gets forgotten about when Santana keeps making breast-grabbing hand gestures at her every time she says it—and they’re in thematic costumes. The next night, they’re all going to go out into the city in costume. They’re disappointed Halloween is on a weeknight, because they’ve all heard there are great parades and things, but they’re thinking of just checking things out anyway, seeing if others are celebrating early.

Santana takes a shower and they all begin to get ready. Kurt is dressing up as Angel, Santana as Drusilla (she’s looking forward to using her _bad_ British accent all night), Rachel as Willow (complete with a bad red wig that Kurt apparently brought her home from his new place of employment) and Quinn as Buffy. While Santana is showering, she can hear everyone coming in and out of the bathroom, putting on make-up or getting hair styling product. Santana is borrowing one of Rachel’s insane vintage style dresses—it’s mostly red, which makes it kind of appropriate—though she pretends it’s not Rachel’s, and when she had tried it on a few days ago, she had griped that she shouldn’t be able to fit into Rachel’s clothes. It’s hard to accept that she’s barely taller than someone that small, but, whatever, she looks good, and she sends a picture of herself to Brittany. Rachel is…pretty much dressed like herself three years ago—fuzzy sweater, collared shirt, skirt, stockings. Quinn has apparently purchased pleather pants for this occasion, and grins as she takes a stake out of her bag. She’d sat on the freaking botanical garden or whatever passed for a quad at her ritzy school and whittled that thing one day last week.

But Kurt…Kurt is so slight, and the length and color of his hair—which he pushes up in that 90’s style duck tail kind of thing Angel does—really makes him look more like Edward Cullen than Angel, and even the dark jeans and dress shirt don’t really help. Santana dies laughing, and Kurt looks very embarrassed at first, but eventually sighs and rolls his eyes, and just applies more eyeliner.

They order takeout from a sorta nearby Chinese restaurant, and, feeling silly, all walk down to pick it up together. No one on the street seems to take any notice of them, which is both a relief and a disappointment. It’s not until they’re paying for their food that the young girl ringing them up, who shouts in Cantonese at the cooks and speaks unaccented English to customers, looks Kurt up and down, snaps her gum and asks, “Are you supposed to be Edward Cullen?” Santana laughs so hard she has to wait outside, and doesn’t hear whether Kurt corrects her after sighing in exasperation or not.

They get home and start the _Buffy_ marathon. They’re barely into Season 3, having finished Season 2 the previous weekend, and in this episode, a new Slayer appears. Santana perks up, “Wait. It’s that chick from _Bring It On_?” Quinn looks at her with a raised eyebrow, and she scoffs, “Come on, you’ve seen that movie.”

“Of course I have,” Quinn replies evenly.

“Damn,” Santana grumbles as the episode continues, “Why didn’t we watch this last weekend? I’d be dressed as her right now. Talk about badass. Plus, I could be annoying Quinn all night instead of hanging on Kurt and saying crazy things.”

“Faith is fascinating,” Quinn begins, but Rachel shushes her with a murmured “Spoiler alert,” and Quinn grins at Santana and they continue to watch.

All in all, even watching Faith get terrified and lose her shit doesn’t make Santana think any less of her because, _damn_ , that giant-ass stake at the end is more badass than anything Buffy’s done so far.

But as they keep watching, Santana wonders if she’s…reading this right. The way Faith talks to Buffy, looks at her…she glances at Quinn, who doesn’t seem to notice, engrossed as she is in a scene in which Faith seems to be going out of her way to publicly humiliate a guy who Buffy briefly dated…Santana brushes away her thoughts.

By around one in the morning, they’re a little less than halfway through the season, and though they decide it’s too late to start another episode, they’re not quite ready for bed. Santana leans on Kurt and speaks nonsense, which is easy to do with the fact that she’s pretty drunk, and it’s so reminiscent of a recent weekend that they both start giggling uncontrollably, but then she realizes something and kicks out a foot to nudge Quinn. “Q, I haven’t heard a thing about your sex life,” she says bluntly, still stifling giggles, “So, seriously, bang any trust fund kids yet?”

“Ooh, does Yale have a rowing team?” Kurt sighs.

Quinn snorts, “Well, first of all, I _am_ a trust fund kid, so watch it. At least, I think I qualify, unless having to fight your father’s lawyer for your money disqualifies you. There were those legal battles over whether I was able to access the funds since my father’s name was on the account with mine, but I _think_ it might finally be settled. It’s just a much a mess as the back payments for child support that he’s still refusing to pay my mother. He’s convinced he rightfully disowned me, even though I was a minor, and that therefore he wasn’t responsible for my welfare.” She sighs, dispelling her bitter rant, then shrugs, “And no. No one’s caught my eye there. Nor do I have any idea about a rowing team, Kurt.”

Rachel slurs in response, adopting a bad accent in imitation of Ewan McGregor, “but a life without love, that’s terrible!”

Quinn laughs at this and says, without a hint of self-deprecation, “I’m not sure I’ve ever had a relationship with someone I was in love with.”

Everyone regards her kind of oddly at this admission, and Rachel says slowly, “But you told me you thought you loved some of your exes.”

“Yeah. Thought,” Quinn says, running her hands up and down her pleather-clad thighs nervously. “Puck…there was too much messiness there for me to even attempt. Sam, I was really just trying to feel normal again, there really wasn’t even time to try to feel anything real there, though he was a great guy. Even Finn I was dating mostly for status, but the second time we tried…” Quinn pauses, as if realizing that maybe talking about Finn is a bad idea, but presses on, “After Zizes put up the pictures of Lucy, Finn showed me that he was carrying a picture of Lucy in his wallet, because, he said, she was his beautiful girlfriend. And even though I didn’t really believe him, that…that was probably the closest I came to loving him. When he was sweet like that. When he _tried_.” Her nails are digging into her thighs a bit as she finishes speaking.

Santana watches as Quinn looks at Rachel. Rachel seems to be far away, not looking at anyone, and her brow is furrowed. In that instant, Santana strongly suspects that Rachel is trying to remember if Finn had ever done anything that sweet for her. Santana flashes back suddenly to the times she had publicly made fun of Rachel in Glee club, only to have Mr. Schue pretend not to hear anything, and to have Finn look at his shoes and not defend his girlfriend. She knows she wasn’t particularly close to them while they were dating, but she can’t really think of a time when Finn did something sweet for Rachel. She glances at Quinn, and Quinn meets her eyes, and she thinks Quinn has realized the exact same thing.

And as they stare at each other a moment longer, and Quinn’s mouth sets ever so slightly and her eyes dart to Rachel and back, Santana realizes…Quinn knew. Quinn had been _trying_ to make Rachel react the way she is. Quinn is so observant, so attentive. She knows how Finn was in his relationship with Rachel, she _knows_ the affection and appreciation that relationship lacked, that he had been incapable of giving Rachel the support her battered self-esteem needed. Santana’s observations must have been correct, or at least also observed by Quinn, and if Rachel is looking as troubled as she is…Santana smiles, almost reflexively, at the manipulative power that is Quinn Fabray. Because, even though at the time she hadn’t really cared much whether Rachel married Finn or not, now she _does_ …and she wants better for Rachel.

Quinn looks back at Rachel, forces a smile and finishes, “So, no. I never loved any of my boyfriends. And I’m…happily single,” she stumbles slightly over the word “happily,” and Rachel blinks a bit distantly as she turns her attention back to Quinn.

“Good for you,” Kurt smiles, “But do send pictures if you bang anyone hot.”

Quinn laughs and rolls her eyes, “I can’t promise you’ll find anyone I bang hot. I may have moved on from the football-player type we used to have in common. The guys I’ve been hanging out with lately are total geeks—though, again, just friends with them.”

“I still want to see anyone you bang,” Kurt says softly, giving Quinn a fond smile.

“Who even says bang anymore?” Santana rolls her eyes.

Soon after this, everyone but Santana heads to bed, Rachel murmuring as she leans on Quinn that two drunken weekends so close together are far too much for her. But Santana, probably because of the alcohol, ends up not staying up as late as she might normally. She steps carefully into her bedroom and starts to take off her dress. She’s quiet, but she watches the two girls to try to make sure she’s not waking them, and the more she watches…

She hadn’t wondered that much about Quinn staying over before she shared a room with Rachel. She assumed someone slept on the floor or something, but now she sees that the two are crammed into Rachel’s twin bed. Quinn’s on her back, a leg dangling off the side of the bed, and Rachel’s on her side facing her. They’re close, probably lightly pressed together under the covers, and honestly, the more Santana looks the more she can’t quite discern if Rachel is wearing a shirt. But she _must_ be, right?

As she finally pulls the dress off and reaches for her tank top—because, well, she and Quinn haven’t set down any rules about accidental flashing—the sound seems to rouse Quinn somewhat. She freezes guiltily, not even understanding _why_ she feels guilty, and watches as Quinn shifts in the bed to draw her leg up and turn toward Rachel, flinging an arm around her side. It’s not intimate, it’s casual, practical, but…Santana blushes as she notices Rachel burrow the smallest bit closer, and she sees Quinn’s lips are inches from Rachel’s forehead. She dresses quickly, grabs a blanket and pillow, and leaves the room.

“Goddamn your overactive lesbian imagination,” she mutters. Seriously, what with her thinking Faith had the hots for Buffy, and feeling so _awkward_ about the completely innocent sleeping position she’d witnessed, Santana realizes…she really, really needs to get laid.

When Rachel wakes her up in the morning, looking really confused, Santana doesn’t have a good explanation ready. “Just wanted the couch for whatever reason,” she mutters, and heads to the bedroom for a few more hours of sleep. She misses the way Quinn bites her lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles are from The Sugarcubes, “Water,” Enigma, “I Love You…I’ll Kill You,” and Missy Elliott, “Get Ur Freak On.” Other song mentioned is The Allman Brothers Band, “Ramblin Man.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Helen: Santana's coworker-friend, known as the "store lesbian," other coworkers think they have something going on


	12. Who am I to disagree?

_Who am I to disagree?_

 

Homecoming is about a week after Kurt leaves, and Blaine wishes, of course, that Kurt could’ve stayed in Lima just a _little_ bit longer…but he knows that there would always be some reason to try to convince him to stay. He needed to leave while it was still practical and possible, and Blaine had respected that, and didn’t push.

Still, he intends to enjoy Homecoming as much as possible. Sam had invited him to come watch the game, which, he likes football, but had heard that the Titans were not particularly good, so he’s not sure he can stomach the game, but Sam assures him they’ve actually had a decent season so far. Plus, Artie is still on the team—though the pushing him down the field strategy isn’t very effective and he’s mostly on the bench—and so is the new kid in Glee, Adam, so Blaine feels a sense of duty to support his teammates.

Plus, Brittany leading the Cheerios is something he wants to see. He’s not the type to ogle cheerleaders—obviously—but even he has to admit that these cheerleaders hold his attention. The routines are, frankly, dangerous looking, and executed flawlessly, and he sometimes can’t believe how many times Brittany spins in the air before being caught by her teammates, or just how easily she falls into a split—on _grass_ , no less.

And it looks like Sam is a decent quarterback. McKinley is ahead 14-7 by halftime, with Adam coming off the bench and into play just in time to score a touchdown before the buzzer sounds.

He turns to look at Burt and Carole, who he’s sitting with for now. They’re both elated, applauding the team, and the Cheerios as they trot out onto the field for a halftime performance; at this school, the marching band stays on the sidelines during halftime.

Blaine wants to watch this, but he also knows now is the time to get a drink, because _everyone_ wants to watch this, and the excitement of watching the game has made him thirsty. So he tells Burt and Carole he’ll see them later and shuffles out of the bleachers to the concession stand. There’s only one other person in line when he gets there, and when the guy turns around, he’s struck with recognition.

“David Karofsky,” Blaine says quietly. He’s not sure even _what_ he is feeling right now. It’s a whole mix of hurt and pity for the young man who attempted suicide, along with some mild suspicion—he knows Karofsky had pursued Kurt at one point. And just…uncertainty.

Karofsky’s eyes flick up and down, taking Blaine in, and he gives a small smile. He turns back to the concession stand and hands some money to the girl working the register, “For whatever he’s getting.”

Blaine is surprised, but orders his drink and watches as the girl gives Karofsky his change. “Thanks,” Blaine says, a tad begrudgingly.

Karofsky smiles and jokes, “Funny that we’re the only two people not watching the cheerleaders right now.”

Blaine can’t help but laugh a little, “Yeah. Though, I do kind of want to see some of it. They’re pretty impressive.”

“They always were,” Karofsky agrees, “Made it easier to pretend to want them when I’d watch.”

They stand on the sidelines, watching as the cheerleaders dance in perfect choreography, stacking themselves like Legos and coming apart like a Jenga tower, flipping and twisting and contorting to the music.

“So, why are you here, anyway?” Blaine finally asks.

“It’s Homecoming,” Karofsky shrugs, “And I spent most of my time at this school. It felt right to come back here.”

Blaine nods, then asks, “Where did you end up, after graduation?”

Karofsky sighs and shrugs. “I…didn’t really end up anywhere. I got into Penn State, because…I wanted to get out of Ohio, but I also wanted somewhere that wasn’t too far, and like…they love football there, so I thought it would be a good fit. I’d wanted to go for a couple years. Even though that scandal happened, I thought I could look past it, but the more I read and thought about it…it just made me so sick. I was scared and a mess anyway. I ended up not being able to bring myself to go, and like…by that time I made that decision, it was too late for my backup school, they were full and I was deferred. I was so low on the waiting list I probably won’t get in until next fall.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Blaine says, and he means it, but it’s hard to make his voice convey that. It’s so surreal to be talking to this guy.

Just then, Brittany is flipped up into the air for the crescendo of the first part of the Cheerio’s halftime performance, and Blaine and Karofsky cheer loudly and clap along with everyone else. Elated, Blaine turns to grin at Karofsky and then says, a tad awkwardly, “It was, uh, good to see you.”

“Wait,” Karofsky responds, “Look, there’s no way to say this without it just sounding…weird…but I need friends. Real ones.”

Blaine regards him uncertainly, but can’t help biting out, “And you think I would be a good friend for you? When you furiously pursued _my_ boyfriend last winter?”

Karofsky shakes his head, smiling a little sheepishly, “I’m over Kurt. He’s a great guy, and you two are great together. I won’t deny that I sometimes wish things had gone differently between us, but Kurt is my friend, and I’d like you to be, too. If I’m stuck in Lima for another year, I need people who have got my back. A support system, you know? I’m not…I’m still not entirely okay with myself. I need people I can trust in my life. And I think I could trust you.”

Blaine regards him with heavy skepticism, “And if I don’t know if I can trust you?” He says it a little quietly now, because he _wants_ to accept Karofsky’s offer. He doesn’t want to just shoot down the guy who went through such _hell_ last spring. But it’s _Karofsky_ …

“Give me a chance to prove myself. Kurt did.”

It’s the mention of Kurt that does it. It’s only been a week, but Blaine misses him. It’s weird at McKinley without him—no matter what he’d said when he transferred, he knows he really did it to be closer to his boyfriend. It’s good that he’s making progress befriending some of the other students in Glee, but…being the only openly gay man at school that he _knows_ of isn’t easy. Everyone in Glee supports him, sure, but who can he really talk to? Brittany? Wade? They’re facing their own struggles, sure, and maybe Brittany could empathize with the way he misses Kurt, but…maybe he just needs more gay male friends. He’d track down some of the Warblers he used to know if he weren’t so concerned about running into Sebastian.

Blaine sighs and smoothes his hair. “Oh, what the hell,” he murmurs, and hands Karofsky his phone, “Give me your number.”

 

_Tell me I belong_

 

The dance is fun. Of course it is, because it’s a dance floor rife with guys and girls attempting to look their best, and she can dance with any of them. Her only regret is that elections for class president haven’t quite happened yet, so she didn’t have any say in the theme for the dance; it’s something stupid like “A night under the stars,” and though some of the glow-in-the-dark decorations are a nice touch, Brittany knows she would have done a lot better.

She doesn’t understand why she never went to the Homecoming dance before. She thinks she remembers Quinn purposely boycotting it, muttering about how Homecoming is like a junior varsity dance, and, thinking back, she assumes that they had been too exhausted from the week of rigorous Cheerios practices required for the performance at halftime the night before to get up in time to get ready for the dance. Or maybe all the dances had themes this terrible, and that’s why they avoided them. Or the fact that it was pretty much open invitation; at least Prom was limited to upperclassmen—theoretically. She’s still not sure how Artie got in that year when he was a Sophomore; had he been Puck’s date?

But Brittany is full of energy. The performance the night before had been strenuous, but the Sylvester/Washington training team was a bit more balanced than in previous years—they tended to cancel out each others’ crazy—and Brittany finds cheerleading kinda _fun_ again sometimes.

Plus, she’s on the ballot for Homecoming King. She thinks even Quinn would admit that’s a title worth having. But then, though Quinn had looked like a queen the entire time Brittany’s known her, she always felt more like a king. She is just _so_ authoritative, and authority looks good on her. Brittany just doesn’t have the same Head Cheerio swagger that Quinn had summoned so effortlessly.

Brittany spins through the room, dipping women, bending bewildered men into swing dance moves, giggling. Racking up votes, she thinks. No one dances as well with her as Santana, of course, and she’s sure if Santana were here, she’d be frowning at how many people Brittany is dancing with, but then again, if Santana were here, she wouldn’t _want_ to dance with anyone else. Watching Santana’s body move, whether in a dress, a Cheerios uniform or jeans, was one of Brittany’s very favorite things, and moving _with_ her, whether dancing, cheering or making love…well. That was perfection.

She sees Blaine, standing a little awkwardly with Artie and Adam. She thinks Artie, in honor of Puck, has attempted to train Adam in the art of spiking a punch bowl, which surprises her, given that Artie is usually such a stickler for the rules. But she guesses with Adam as his fall guy, he had no problem masterminding the plan, just to text Puck later to put a smile on his face. It’s oddly, manipulatively, sweet.

She sees Blaine excuse himself to go greet the new girl in Glee, that freshman named Meredith, or Merry. She’s dressed in a well-fitting pantsuit, and Brittany admires it. It’s similar to Brittany’s skirt suit, which is styled after a tuxedo. Brittany thinks she looks very dashing. She sees Blaine offer his hand and, rolling her eyes, Merry accepts the two begin a very awkward dance together, which they acknowledge by chuckling frequently.

Brittany spins into the nearest person, and stops to stare when she realizes it’s David Karofsky. And it’s hard, to deal with what she feels when he smiles and offers a hand. She _knows_ what he meant to Santana— _nothing_ —she _knows_ how much he ended up hurting, but she can’t shake the hurt she feels when she remembers how Santana had gloated about her _boyfriend_ right in front of her.

“I don’t need any facial hair,” she tells him bluntly, glancing at his outstretched hand and then back to his face.

His face goes blank, but then he laughs, slightly, and says, “I deserve that. But that’s not what I’m offering. Let’s dance. I know you like dancing, and we can talk.”

Karofsky is surprisingly graceful, for his stature; Brittany had expected to wince through the admittedly silly dance, the way she had whenever she’d dance with Finn in Glee, but it’s not that bad. Finally, Karofsky smiles and says, “I just wanted to say I think it’s really cool. That you’re running for Homecoming King.”

Brittany nods, “I got the idea when Kurt won Prom Queen two years ago. I think we should be allowed to choose which we want.”

Karofsky’s face flashes hurt at the memory of Kurt being crowned his queen, but he nods and says quietly, “Yeah. I respect that.” He smiles, “I just think that…what you guys, you, and Santana, and Kurt, did with this school…I know it’s not perfect. I know there are still assholes here. But you managed to make it safer. I wish I’d had the courage to stay and help.”

Brittany smiles sadly, but doesn’t actually have a response, and in that moment, Blaine and Merry sidle up to them and Blaine sings out, “Partner switch!” and grabs Karofsky’s hands, and Merry is nudged gently into Brittany’s arms. Brittany grins and dips her automatically, and Merry, unprepared, quickly rights herself and balances with her hands on Brittany’s shoulders. She stares. Even though she’d been in Glee for a couple of weeks now, Brittany has never really had a conversation with her. She sees in the corner of her eye Karofsky looking nervous as he and Blaine dance in front of each other, not touching, but Blaine is smiling reassuringly and singing along to the music.

“You’re Brittany S. Pierce.” Merry says, her face slightly awed. Brittany wants to roll her eyes. Come on, obviously the girl knows this, and then Merry says, still awed, “You’re Santana Lopez’s girlfriend.”

Brittany doesn’t attempt to hide her slow, wide smile. “Yep!” she chirps happily.

“That’s so cool,” Merry dips her head and a blush spreads over her pale, freckled cheeks, “She’s kind of my hero. When that smear ad about her ran last year, I finally had the courage to come out to my mom. Because I realized it could be a lot worse.”

Smiling sympathetically, Brittany asks, “Was she okay?”

“Yeah,” Merry exhales, “Pretty much. Only problem is, she told me I can never tell my dad.”

“That’s…rough,” Brittany whispers, holding the girl closer. It’s a comfort thing, at this point, and memories of Santana sobbing into her chest until she chokes after her grandmother…Brittany is gripped by sympathy.

Merry nods, and says, “At least it was on my own terms. But still. She’s amazing. I saw videos of you guys on YouTube—both for cheerleading and when New Directions won Nationals. You’re all amazing. I’m really excited to be part of this,” she grins.

Brittany she thinks of Santana, again, and the way her beautiful eyes sparkle when they dance, the feel of her soft, thick hair between her fingers, the feel of soft lips on her own. She smiles reassuringly at Merry and finds herself catching Sam’s eye from across the room. He’s staring at the two of them and finally smirks at Brittany a little. She waves and winks in response.

It’s weird, but nice, that Brittany has a baby-gay to mentor. She’s taken it upon herself to mentor the girl, anyway, because hearing about Merry’s dad makes her afraid that she’ll be really sad someday, but she’s never had anyone to mentor before. Except maybe when she was helping Kurt with his class president campaign, but that was different, she was more of an advisor before she decided to help herself instead.

The song ends and Brittany bends Merry into another dip, and the girl stifles a shriek as she’s tipped back. Brittany lifts her back up and smiles, giving her a hug, “Thanks for the dance!” and, spotting Tina, skips off to dance with her.

Tina had known Mike wouldn’t be able to come home for Homecoming, because, face it, Homecoming is for townies and maybe people who went to OSU. But she still missed him, and it had been great to text him a picture of her in her dress, and to get to talk on the phone for a bit before she left. She only came because Brittany had asked her to be her date, specifying that it was a “completely non-sexual arrangement,” which had just made Tina’s eyes bug. In fact, Brittany had asked or browbeat every member of the Glee club—and probably the Cheerios, too, Tina reflects—to attend the dance in order to boost her votes and, as far as Tina knew, everyone had arrived and voted accordingly (except for Wade, who felt like attending as Wade would be dishonest, but wasn’t ready to attend as Unique. It had taken a long talk with Tina and Blaine to get Brittany to agree to respect Wade’s decision, as her dilemma was something hard for Brittany to understand despite her strong sense of empathy, which, as Tina sees the way Brittany approaches Homecoming King and gender, she kind of gets but kind of doesn’t). It is one of those things where voting is a lot less of an issue. There were always lines at the voting table for Prom, as people approached, had their names checked off, and slid in their ballots. The same process happens here, except there never is a line at the table. People really just don’t care about Homecoming court royalty; Tina has to admit she only knows Brittany and Sam on the entire court, which contains seven guys and seven girls.

“Are you having fun?” Brittany asks her.

“Yeah, actually,” Tina smiles, “I’m glad you asked me.”

“Me too,” Brittany hums, “and I’m sorry we can’t end the night with a kiss, because you are really hot.”

“Um,” Tina’s not sure how to respond. Every once in awhile since they started to become better friends, Brittany says things like this, and Tina can’t tell her intentions. She thinks it’s probably just Brittany’s way of complimenting her.

Brittany doesn’t seem to notice that Tina hasn’t really responded and picks up the energy in her dance, “I like this song. Maybe we can do it in Glee,” she says absently. Tina listens, eyes bugging _again_ when she realizes it’s “Cake” by Rihanna, and she’s not even sure how the chaperones are okay with the DJ playing it, but she _knows_ Mr. Schue will realize it’s a song about licking, well, _places,_  and…

Tina flushes, but grins and dances harder with Brittany. She can see Blaine, Sam, Artie and Joe dancing together (together-not-together, as they aren’t actually touching each other, just forming a circle—it’s kind of a girly thing, she thinks) nearby, Sam licking his lips exaggeratedly and Blaine groaning and both laughing hysterically, while Artie is flushed red but grinning, and Joe looks bewildered. Clearly, they know what the song is about…except for Joe, anyway, and Joe’s naiveté makes Tina chuckle.

But after the song ends, Mr. Figgins takes the stage, and Tina can hear him murmuring, “Quiet, children. Your attention please.”

Brittany shoots Tina an excited look and bounces from foot to foot. Tina watches, amused. She still doesn’t quite understand how Brittany has that much energy. Tina feels like she’s no slug—she’s a good dancer and tries to be as active in Glee as she can (though, damn Mr. Schue and his reluctance to give her solos), she’s a central part of the Brianiacs, she and Artie the club’s current veterans, she takes tap and piano lessons, and she makes straight A’s, her parents have always pushed her to do well. Tina is no slacker, but even she can’t believe Brittany’s energy.

“We will now be announcing the nominations for Homecoming King and Queen,” Figgins says in his quiet, deliberate way. He recites the names, the spotlight finding each nominee in the crowd as they wave. Most people clutch their date’s arm and try to look dignified, except Sam, who came alone and just waves bashfully, and Brittany, who jumps up and down and waves enthusiastically when her name is called. Tina can’t help but beam.

“And the McKinley High Homecoming King for 2012 is…Brittany S. Pierce,” Figgins murmurs, his eyebrows betraying his surprise. Brittany squeals and tackles Tina in a hug that’s over too quickly for Tina to even hug back before the bundle of energy is rocketing up onstage. Tina starts to vaguely worry that Brittany has been taking Vitamin D, because this kind of manic energy is actually getting baffling at this point.

Brittany accepts her crown and grabs the microphone from a bewildered Figgins and, seeming to reign in her high spirits, says seriously, “Thank you for your votes! Please vote for me again next week for class president. I served you well last year, and I will serve you well this year. I kept my campaign promise and there were no destructive tornadoes in the halls of McKinley High.” She nods decisively and hands back the microphone, and Tina wants to laugh, because Brittany _didn’t_ serve them last year, but really, a sea of students is a sea of students.

Tina reaches over to pat Sam’s arm, “Sorry you didn’t win,” she tells him, even though she’s happy for Brittany.

To her surprise, Sam grins at her, “Are you kidding? Seeing Brittany win Homecoming King is well worth it.” Blaine, still next to him, laughs and nods his agreement.

A hush falls over the gym as Figgins prepares to read the name of the Homecoming Queen. When he opens the envelope, he scowls, and says, “McKinley High, my hands are tied, and you have voted in an impossibility. The Homecoming Queen is Sugar Motta.”

Tina’s mouth drops open as Sugar takes the stage, making an exaggerated Queen wave as she does so. For one thing, Sugar was not on the Homecoming Court, and for another, she is a Junior. Tina glances around, half-expecting some of the actual nominees to get upset, but like every dance she’s been to, no one really reacts when someone unexpected and impossible takes the title they fought for. It’s baffling, but she supposes it’s some sort of social psychology phenomena in effect.

Sam mutters at her, “I heard Sugar saying she was buying votes, but I wasn’t sure she was serious.”

“Yeah,” Tina mutters back, “And I really didn’t think it would work, anyway, but hey, I guess she got what she wanted.”

Sugar is crowned, and then Brittany and Sugar have their celebratory dance. Tina notices Rory nearby, and with a shrug holds out a hand to him and they dance.

“I can’t believe she won!” Rory crows in celebration, “Both of them!” he adds, respectfully, though Tina knows he’s mostly happy for Sugar; they’ve been kind-of dating for quite awhile now, and though it’s entertaining to watch Sugar keep him on a short leash, she wonders why Rory puts up with it. Tina reflects that both winners were nearly impossible choices and wonders if her class will go down in history as the class that just _does not give a fuck_. When they were freshmen, she’s pretty sure they voted “clear” as their class color (Tina thinks that could have made for a rather disturbing Class Color Day, but they were forced to re-vote; the second time, the class chose “plaid” and when forced to vote _again_ , finally chose “puce”).

But either way, it’s liberating. It makes the rest of her last year of high school seem _so_ much more bearable.

“Me neither, I’m proud of both of them,” she responds to Rory, and watches them over his head as he leads her in a simple, but graceful dance; Rory’s decent on his feet.

Brittany is laughing hysterically and she and Sugar keep whispering in each other’s ears. Right next to each other, the odd similarities in their features—the ones that had made her absently wonder last year if both Artie and Rory chased Sugar _because_ she resembled Brittany—become much more pronounced, and those similar straight noses brush together slightly as they giggle, and their eyebrows tug down in the same way as their foreheads press together. It’s strangely intimate, and Tina finds she can’t look away.

And again, that odd feeling from last month bubbles up in her stomach. The one that wonders, _Do Brittany and Santana have an open relationship?_

Because Tina can’t help it; she loves gossip. And without Kurt and Mercedes here, well, maybe she has to gossip with _herself_ , but…she doesn’t want to admit that her curiosity is more than that.

She blushes as the thought hits her, and looks elsewhere, only to see Sam dancing with Merry, and Merry is smiling comfortably, but Sam is watching Brittany and Sugar, too, and Tina knows that his expression is the same that hers was, curious and open and almost _mystified_ …

And when the song ends, and the next one begins, she joins the rest of the Glee club as they gather around Brittany and Sugar to congratulate them, and shout out the lyrics to the newest Pink song the DJ plays next with so little regard for melody that Rachel Berry would cringe, a dancing cluster, hanging all over each other, laughing, singing…

The New Directions at their best, Tina thinks, and the swell of pride erupts in her chest, and she finds herself crying.

 

_I’m a young blood coming up fresh in the game_

 

She reflects that maybe there is some kind of karma in the universe, because she _never_ would have given these people the time of day in high school. They would’ve been like…the A/V club, or something even lower than the Glee club.

But somehow, she’s found a little niche with people far geekier than even bookworm Lucy had ever managed to be.

It starts because of her roommate, Stephanie. Quinn discovers, for the first time since she’s gone by Quinn, that she’s actually a bit shy; the persona of Quinn Fabray, pretty blonde cheerleader, is gone, and even so would not be the social currency it once was, would not have given her the social courage she once had. The re-invented Quinn Fabray, freshman at Yale, first becomes hyper-focused on school, and it isn’t until about a month into school that she realizes she hasn’t really made any friends.

And, at first, she’s okay with this, because what happened with Artie, and her conversation with him, still weighs heavily on her mind, and she wants to ensure that any friends she makes are _genuine_ , and not selfish, but it’s not an easy thing to qualify. And really, making friends with other students is almost selfish by definition, because of advantages to studying…

Not that she’s been completely socially isolated. Other students talk to her in class, once or twice she’s grabbed a meal with a few, but nothing’s ever clicked. Possibly because it’s mostly been guys that have approached her, and she’s fairly good at reading their attraction. She’s not interested in befriending someone who just wants to get to know her because he wants her. Not anymore.

Stephanie is the one who finally pressures her, the evening she realizes she’s mostly friendless. “Come to dinner with me. Seriously, Quinn, you eat alone all the time.”

She likes Stephanie. She’s funny, usually quiet unless something amuses her and then she fills the room with raucous, infectious laughter. She’s always on her computer, and looks horrified whenever Quinn puts on workout clothes to go for a run (which is getting easier—she’ll probably never be in the shape she was in the first month of Sophomore year, but she’s in good shape, her legs are getting stronger, and she’s not gaining weight). She shares two classes with Quinn, one English and one World History, and in class she is engaged and obviously intelligent.

She also has just the right attitude, right between Santana’s forceful authority and Rachel’s patient confidence, to get Quinn to acquiesce.

“Alright,” Quinn rolls her eyes, setting aside her copy of _Lyrical Ballads_. Stephanie smirks and steps aside to let Quinn out of the room first, locking the door behind them.

“It’s silly that you don’t eat with me,” she presses, “I mean, I like you, I think you like me. You’ve met Steve before and he likes you.”

Quinn nods, “I like him, too,” she shrugs. Steve is Stephanie’s boyfriend, and god damn if that sort of symmetry doesn’t make Quinn want to gag; it’s _way_ too reminiscent of Quinn and Finn that…

“Sean will be there, too,” Stephanie reports. Quinn nods; Sean is Steve’s roommate, who she has met in passing, and who she suspects is attracted to her. This instantly feels slightly double-date-y, and she curses Stephanie for not talking about this sooner.

They meet the boys at the dorm’s stairwell. They actually live on the floor above Quinn and Stephanie. Steve is tall and somewhat lean, with Malcolm X style glasses and long, wavy dark hair that he usually ties back. Sean is shorter, about Quinn’s height actually, and stout, with closely-cropped hair.

And dinner…turns out fine. Despite the fact that the other three spend most of it arguing about some video game Quinn has never even _heard_ of, she enjoys their company. Stephanie gets hilariously screechy when she argues her points, Steve is infuriatingly relaxed and calm during the exchange—or would be, to Quinn, if she were the one arguing with him—and Sean spends most of the argument laughing.

Toward the end of the meal, when Quinn is finished with her salad and chicken curry (and the food is a lot better than she could have anticipated, for campus food) and everyone else is slowly finishing what’s left on their plates through their argument, Sean glances at her and catches her distantly amused expression. His face seems to only have two settings, and it changes from amused to serious as he says, “Wait. You’ve never played _Starcraft_ , have you?”

Quinn raises an eyebrow and responds, with a hint of pride in her voice, “No.”

A hush settles over the table and Quinn raises her eyebrow higher when she sees everyone is staring at her.

“You guys are just now noticing that I had nothing to add to that conversation? I’m starting to think what they say about geeks and their social skills is true,” she scoffs, smirking challengingly.

She instantly regrets the barb, until Sean starts laughing again, and then, bluntly, says, “You _do_ realize you go to Yale, right? Ergo, you must just as geeky? Either that, or you’re rich,” he muses.

Quinn rolls her eyes, ignoring the second part because she really doesn’t want to talk about money, “Sure, I guess I could be a little geeky, but in a different way. I mean, I think the only video game I’ve played in the last ten years was like… _Mario Kart_ , when I was babysitting my ex-boyfriend’s little siblings. I mean, what is it? Is it like _World of Warcraft_ or whatever?”

Stephanie cuts in, “It’s not like _WOW_ , though I do play that, and don’t remind me, because I suspended my account when school started so I can focus, and my guild has been on my ass because I haven’t been playing the new expansion…” Stephanie pouts tragically, then continues excitedly, “ _Starcraft_ is strategy, and since I know you’re brilliant, you’ll probably be good at it. Look, there’s a _Starcraft 2_ out, but we’re kind of old school and play the original. It doesn’t require a fancy computer—I can play it just fine on my school laptop from four years ago—and it’s cross-OS, so it’ll run on your Macbook. We’ll just have to get you a USB mouse, because the trackpad will be way too slow…” she trails off and grins, “This is what we do on those weekends where you’re holed up in the library, or visiting your boyfriend in New York.”

Quinn can feel herself blushing, “Oh my God. I visit my best friend _Rachel_ , Stephanie, not any boyfriend. I meant it when I said you didn’t have to make yourself scarce that weekend she was visiting, you could have met her and had proof! And, as you know, she’s visiting again this weekend, so I’ll prove it to you then!” She hadn’t really minded that Stephanie had spent that weekend in the boys’ room, because she liked hanging out with just Rachel, but Rachel had seemed to think it odd that Quinn’s roommate, who she’d spoken of with respect, was gone entirely.

Stephanie just laughs, “So why does she have her own special ringtone?” and Quinn huffs, not responding. Stephanie had noticed, rather quickly, that there was one person who had a different ringtone than anyone else—Rachel’s is “Someday We’ll Be Together,” (because she misses her best friend, _obviously_ , and she means it in the sense that they’ll _visit_ each other soon)—and had always just smirked and said “suuure,” when Quinn told her it was her best friend calling.

At Quinn’s non-response, Stephanie just looks at her warmly, “You’re fun to tease,” she says, while Steve and Sean just look between them, smirking. And somehow after dinner, she convinces Quinn to put aside her reading to install _Starcraft_ , and they take their laptops upstairs to the boys’ room—since both only have desktops (Steve because he wants to study computer science and he built his computer himself, and Sean because, as he bluntly states, he’s poor)—and play.

When they start, with Stephanie kind of murmuring instructions at her, Quinn mostly just curses her weird little units. They looks like reptilian bugs or dogs or something. They told her to try Zerg first, since the basic strategy was the fairly simple “make as many troops as possible” strategy. For about twenty minutes she tries to figure out what her units and buildings even do and what it means when they bubble and pulse, until Steve’s Terran troops storm in and decimate her little settlement, and she finds herself pouting as she is eliminated.

“Steve!” Stephanie smacks his arm, “I told you to go easy on Quinn!”

Steve grins and shrugs, “It’s the way of the game.”

“Ugh! Let’s start over!” Stephanie demands, exiting the game. It takes ten minutes to convince the boys to leave the game they now are alone in, but eventually they do, and Stephanie elects to sit this one out and sit next to Quinn, advising her on strategy.

She’s close, leaning against Quinn’s arm, pointing at the screen. Quinn can feel her breath on her cheek, her long hair tickling her upper arm, the occasional brush of her breast against her elbow. Her shampoo smells good, and it’s a bit distracting, actually. But when she completes a decent zergling rush on Steve’s—Protoss, this time—encampment, not decimating it, but leaving him vulnerable for a second surge from Sean’s Terran troops, and weathers one round of attacks from Sean, Quinn feels some of it click into place. The delicate balance between offense and defense, the way different units function, even the strength of her Zerg race as just overpowering with cheap, expendable troops.

She doesn’t expect to win against people who have been playing this game for almost a decade—it was a first computer game for most of them—and Sean’s second attack wipes her out, but she knows she’ll be a formidable opponent someday.

Sue Sylvester did make her read the _Art of War_ , after all.

 

_Your Antarctic hair off with the crown_

 

Rachel visits to go to the poetry reading with her, and Quinn somewhat reluctantly makes sure she’s introduced to her acquaintances.

Stephanie is surprisingly polite—she doesn’t make a single reference to Quinn’s imaginary boyfriend—and somehow manages to have a conversation with Rachel about New York for about twenty minutes while Quinn’s gaze just ping-pongs between them. At dinner the night after the poetry reading, Rachel meets Steve and Sean. They both just act shy for awhile until Rachel gets Sean to begrudgingly admit that he likes showtunes (which makes everyone stare at him in surprise until he looks amused and reports, “Yes, I’m straight”). They then start on some conversation about music that eventually includes Steve, too—he shares that he’s an ex-trombonist, and Sean begrudgingly also admits he was in marching band in high school and that he plays the saxophone. Quinn’s a bit lost, because despite childhood piano lessons and singing, she just doesn’t know all the pieces, composers or concepts they’re discussing, and Stephanie pouts that she never learned to play an instrument.

They share Quinn’s bed; even when Stephanie had disappeared the last time Rachel had visited, they’d shared Quinn’s bed in case she returned. Stephanie disappears again to sleep in the boys’ room this time, but doesn’t bother to inform Quinn about this until the morning, so again, like they did in New York, they share a bed. And really, they’re both small, and Quinn has had enough sleepovers with Brittany, who is a pathological cuddler, to assure Rachel repeatedly that it’s fine—she’d made that clear the first time Rachel visited, just as Rachel had made sure she knew she was welcome to share her own bed in New York. And it _is_. It’s nice. And they’re pretty much used to it by now.

By the time Rachel leaves, she gushes that she likes Quinn’s new friends, and some relief settles inside Quinn. If Rachel likes them, well, maybe it’s because they actually fit well with her. Maybe Quinn is making friends for the right reasons.

She likes that Rachel likes them, but in some ways, she likes even more that these people know so little about her. She has control over what they know of her. She doesn’t _have_ a reputation here that demands that her business is for public consumption—and though in some ways having no reputation has made it hard for her to figure out how to talk to people, it also means no one _expects_ anything of her. They’re not in awe of her. They’re not afraid to talk to her.

They also don’t know her secrets, and for now, she wants to keep it that way. She has a clean slate. If she chooses to reveal anything, she can do so in her own time.

She thought she’d be ripping the band-aid off for a few of those secrets when she first arrived, but had changed tactics almost immediately. She’d decided she was okay with not having _any_ labels defining her (whether HBIC, psycho, mother, plastic, cripple, or anything else). She’s even kept her cross hidden away—her faith is for her to share, not for anyone to infer.

A few weeks later, and their little group gets just a bit bigger.

Apparently discovering a mutual love for _Fringe_ , Stephanie invites a girl from one of her general education classes back to the dorm to watch the new episode one evening. Quinn usually vacates at this time, but prodding from Stephanie, Steve and Sean convince her to stay and give the show a chance.

The new girl introduces herself as Lulu, which makes Quinn almost double-take, because it’s _so_ close to Lucy, and honestly…the girl looks kind of like what Lucy would look like if she were half Asian (a strange part of Quinn’s brain supplies that she looks like what might happen if she and Tina had a baby and her Lucy parts won out, and another part of her brain is facepalming a little that she thought of having a baby with _Tina_ before Mike, because, _jeez_ , impossible much?). Lulu is just a hair taller than she is, with straight, long dark brown hair, dark eyes, glasses, a straight nose, and a—well—plump build. But not the awkward, hunched overweight build of Lucy. She has nice hips, nice breasts, and is obviously much more comfortable in her skin than Lucy ever was.

Quinn shakes her hand, which earns her a laugh from Stephanie, “So formal!” Stephanie crows dramatically, and Lulu pumps her hand solemnly a few times before cracking a grin. Quinn thinks she might be blushing when she pulls away.

“I’m just polite,” she says awkwardly.

“I appreciate it,” Lulu assures her, and Steve and Sean lope in after a few minutes, wave awkwardly as Stephanie introduces them to Lulu, and they settle onto Stephanie’s bed and onto the beanbag chairs on the floor in front of it to watch the show. Which…Quinn is completely lost, but there are aspects that remind her of the first season and a half of _The X-Files_ that she’s seen—turns out Lulu is a fan of that, too—that she thinks she might add _Fringe_ to the list of shows she needs to catch up on.

Lulu continues to come around to hang out with a bit more frequency. She’s not crazy about video games, but says she’s used to watching because her boyfriend loves them. They watch movies and TV shows together.

“Where’s your dorm, anyway?” Quinn asks with curiosity once, trying to ascertain why Lulu never seems to drop off her school stuff there before coming to hang out.

“Oh. I’m a townie,” Lulu says with a shy smile, “My parents both worked at the college.” She says this in a distant way that makes Quinn realize she shouldn’t press as to why her parents no longer work there.

Lulu intends to be an art major, which Quinn learns when one day she asks, somewhat out of the blue, “Mulder or Scully?”

“Scully,” Quinn answers immediately—like it’s even a contest—and raises an eyebrow as Lulu’s hand starts moving purposefully over her sketchpad. “What about you?”

Lulu smiles and looks up, “It’s hard to answer, because I love them both, but I was really into David Duchovny when I was younger. So I guess Mulder.”

A few minutes later, she bequeaths—yes, that formally—Quinn with a signed drawing of Scully looking scandalized at something. It’s a bit rough, because she was clearly working from memory, but she’s so obviously talented that Quinn’s mouth drops open. “Oh, wow,” she says.

And to repay her, she opens a picture of David Duchovny on her laptop and makes her own sketch on a sheet of notebook paper. Her style is more or less the same silly, exaggerated style she used to draw Rachel in high school, so even though she tries to be realistic, his eyes look a little too small and his nose a little too large, but with his open mouth and drawn together brow, he looks like Mulder largely expressionlessly trying to tell Scully how right he is about something, and Lulu grins in surprise when she hands it to her. “I didn’t know you were artistic.”

Quinn laughs uncertainly, “Barely,” she scoffs, “It’s mostly silly stuff like that.”

“I like it,” Lulu smiles.

“Let me see!” Stephanie demands, taking the drawing and staring at it, “Oh, it is pretty good. Who is it supposed to be?”

Lulu laughs, “You really need to see _The X-Files_.”

“Pssht. Whatever. _Fringe_ has got to be better.” And with that, competitive Stephanie draws them a picture of Walter Bishop, his hair a swirling mass, that makes them both gasp with awe at her strange style and laugh, because, well, it’s Walter Bishop.

Thus begins the drawing contests that soon everyone is involved in; Quinn’s art tends toward caricature, Lulu’s is full of attention to detail, Stephanie’s is whimsical, Sean’s is rough with heavy outlines, and Steve’s is strangely cartoonish—like _Calvin and Hobbes_ meets _Archie_.

The only thing she really feels she’s missing in this new geeky existence is music.

It’s frustrating, because she keeps looking at the school’s website, at the various choirs that exist. Yale even has a glee club, but she feels like she doesn’t have time. She also feels like she isn’t a strong enough vocalist. She knows she was good for high school (she was quite good at a lot for the level expected in high school), but she doesn’t think she’s good enough for college yet (even academically, although she’s doing well so far, she does have to work harder. College is different).

So she sits on the idea of joining a choir, for the time being, and enjoys trying to tease out what it’s like to have these new friends.

Friends who see her as shy, polite, intelligent. And not a former _anything_.

She could get used to a reputation she’s been granted, not one that she’s thrust upon herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles are from Eurythmics, “Sweet Dreams,” Burial, “Archangel,” Die Antwoord, “Baby’s On Fire,” and Jonsi, “Boy Lilikoi.” Other songs mentioned are Rihanna, “Cake,” and Diana Ross, “Someday We’ll Be Together.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Adam: Previously alluded to, named this chapter, new boy in Glee  
> Merry: Previously alluded to, named this chapter, new girl in Glee  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, enjoys English, has a boyfriend at Yale  
> Steve: Previously alluded to, named in this chapter, Stephanie's boyfriend, also a Yale student  
> Sean: Introduced this chapter  
> Lulu: Introduced this chapter


	13. Your big dream is crashing down and out your door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning for mild Samcedes toward the end, including implied kink.

_Your big dream is crashing down and out your door_

 

Santana’s work has gotten weirder. The remodel has been finished since just before Halloween, and Stu had approached her and Helen and asked them if they wanted to stay overnight. Santana had said yes, because she _knows_ she can’t deal with customers, and she knows Stu knows (there may have been a incident, during that last hour the store was open during Santana’s shift, in which she’d snapped at a woman who was rude to her and then went to hide in the back room, and Stu may have witnessed it. To be fair, the woman was speaking to her really slowly and simply, and had clearly assumed that she didn’t speak English). To her relief, Helen had said she wants to stay overnight, too, because none of the positions open in dayside interest her. Helen is pretty much the only reason Santana likes showing up for work; they spend the entire shift making sarcastic jokes. Helen has a dry sense of humor, made funnier by her stoic personality. It’s a little like being friends with a mixture of herself and Quinn.

Stu’s proposal had involved letting her and Helen “lead” (in the sense of taking responsibility for, but not getting promoted or paid more) a group in the new fresh food section the remodel had produced. They’re promised five days a week, four to deal with food deliveries, and one extra day each to maintain the section. They shrug and accept. They don’t really have any other reasonable options.

It’s not that bad at first, until they’re told they also need to go into the back room refrigerators and freezer. Helen knows how deal with products stored in the back room, but neither of them have been officially trained. Still, Helen trains Santana, and then, in a bizarre twist, fills out her own training paperwork. Then Stu comes by, telling them both they just need to sign a paper and their training will be complete.

“This paper says I’ve been trained on the power pallet-jack. And the cardboard baler.” Santana says uncertainly, “I definitely haven’t.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s okay. You’ll never need that. Just sign it, it’s just for paperwork purposes,” Stu responds unconcernedly.

Santana reluctantly signs, even though it feels really wrong, and Helen does the same, shrugging and telling Santana almost all her training has been this piecemeal and inaccurate.

The coolers and freezer are hellish. Well, the coolers aren’t so bad; Santana just starts bringing a sweatshirt to work and they are provided with hats and gloves and they’re fine. The freezer is awful. The thermometer next to it reads -15 degrees, and even though they’re provided with insulated snowpants and jackets (all sized extra large, so Santana almost swims in them), Santana can feel her eyelashes freezing within five minutes, although she can’t always feel her nose run until it actually drips onto her collar, which is just disgusting. If she and Helen are both there, it only takes them about twenty minutes to finish sorting out all the food the computer system tells them was sold that day, but alone, it obviously takes about double that time, and Santana’s hands and feet are so cold that she feels like she’s going to throw up—which, she never knew could even _happen_. They then have to take everything out and put it properly in the freezers and refrigerators on the sales floor, and if some of it doesn’t fit, they have to go _back_ in the freezer to file it away again.

It’s at this point that Santana starts to really hate her job.

After Halloween, Kurt off-handedly mentions that his job had gotten rid of the seasonal workers, and in the process, had angered a few regular employees, who had quit. This means he has a ton of extra hours, overtime, even, and Rachel reads between the lines and realizes she can apply there. She does.

Kurt freaks out a little when she asks him to be a reference, “Rachel…don’t take this the wrong way, because your fashion sense _has_ been improving over time…but are you sure you want to work in a _clothing_ store?”

Rachel huffs, offended, “I didn’t realize I’d be called upon to make executive fashion decisions. I’m fairly certain the job description of ‘sales clerk’ involves ringing the cash register and restocking clothing.”

Kurt sighs, and says, “Okay, but let me dress you for your job interview. I won’t have you embarrass me.”

Rachel fumes, growls, “Fine, if it means that much more to you than our friendship!” and stalks to her bedroom in possibly the least intense diva storm-out Santana has seen to date. She doesn’t even slam the door.

Santana, drinking a pre-work coffee in the living room, gives Kurt a pointed look when he turns to her helplessly. His eyes drop immediately and he murmurs, “Yeah. You’re right.”

He grabs a notepad and pen from the kitchen junk drawer and Santana vaguely reads his short apology note that basically says, “sorry I’m so appearance conscious; my friendship with you comes first, and I’m an asshole for not recognizing that sooner.” She smiles as he tucks it under her door and shuts himself in his own room in shame.

A few minutes later, Rachel comes out with a tremulous smile, knocks on his door just to murmur, “Apology accepted,” before disappearing into her own room again.

Santana figures this is the end of it and heads to work, which is a clusterfuck. After she and Helen deal with the freezers and coolers, they keep finding rotting and expired food as they stock the grocery section. They tell Stu there’s obviously a problem and he allows them to spend most of the night finding disgusting food and attempted to gross-out each other to find the most out-of-date thing—which turns out to be multiple packages of basil that somehow ended up on their shelves even though they expired before the fresh food section was even open.

By the time she wakes up the next day, it’s clear that Rachel has gotten the job, because she and Kurt are chattering excitedly in the living room. They work together that weekend. She hears Kurt asking if Rachel saw the “extreme hipster” working the floor that day and both dissolve into giggles again. Santana just rolls her eyes, but she’s glad they seem to have put the incident behind them.

It’s odd, though, when that entire weekend, Kurt comes back from work alone at around 9. He always just says Rachel is on campus, practicing, and Santana encourages him to meet her as she comes home on the subway so that she doesn’t have to walk alone, but she can’t exactly guess _why_ Rachel might be on-campus that late at night.

By Monday, things make more sense. When Santana wakes up a bit past 1, Rachel is just coming back from being on campus. Kurt has the day off and is watching _King of the Hill_ , for god knows _what_ reason. They both greet Rachel distractedly, exchanging a troubled look when they see her holding a familiarly wrinkled envelope to her chest that she takes to her room. When Santana settles next to Kurt on the couch and begins to eat, he asks casually, “Are you going for a run today?”

Santana shrugs. She’s been trying to go running most days, but sometimes she just can’t force herself to go. And, since daylight savings time ended, it’s suddenly dark at the time she normally likes to go running—at around 4—which has thrown a wrench in her fitness plans, because she really doesn’t want to go running in the dark in her neighborhood. But Kurt goes with her sometimes, to her surprise; she had thought he was allergic to sweat. When she’d pointed this out, he’d shuddered violently and had told her that, believe him, he _loathed_ sweat, but wanted to stay sexy for Blaine.

“I might. I got up early enough that I might actually be ready before it gets dark. You want to go?” Running is different when Kurt goes with her. When she goes by herself, she just focuses on the route, which is basically the same every day, but Kurt likes to switch things up, go down roads they haven’t run on before, and he likes to try to talk during. And he makes her laugh during, which just slows her down, but it’s fun in its own way. She’s also somewhat surprised they run at about the same pace, because, while Kurt was never quite as athletic as she is, his body has definitely become toned over the years she’s known him, not to mention he is male and about half a foot taller than she is. But he doesn’t really have long legs. So it works, somehow.

“Probably, yeah,” he responds, and they lapse into silence.

After a few minutes, they both warily look up as they realize simultaneously that Rachel is standing across from them, hands on her hips, her face theatrically determined.

“So,” Rachel reports, and with a scowl, Kurt pauses Netflix, “I have several auditions this week. Two for on-campus productions, and one for an off-Broadway show. I feel pretty confident about the productions on-campus, but the off-Broadway, which is tomorrow, is understandably intimidating.”

Santana just nods dumbly, noting vaguely that, next to her, Kurt’s spine has straightened.

“I’ve been practicing for weeks now, and I would like to get your opinions on my audition selections.”

“Whatever, sure,” Santana says neutrally, glancing at Kurt, who just works his jaw for a moment and nods.

Rachel nods and strides in front of the television, straightens her shoulders, beams and says, “I’m going to be performing ‘Wouldn’t It be Loverly?’ from _My Fair Lady_.”

Kurt _snorts_ at this, and loudly. Santana glances at him, surprised, and Rachel looks hurt, “Kurt?” she questions.

“Seriously, Rachel? With the Cockney accent or without? Because if you don’t have to accent down, don’t bother.”

“With the accent, thank you,” Rachel answers, with more patience than Santana expected, “It’s a matter of mimicry. I can handle it for just one song.”

“Right, right, sure,” Kurt drawls.

“I think it could be good,” Santana breaks in, “It shows you’re not afraid of a challenge, that you’re versatile. That’s the idea, right?”

“Thank you, Santana,” Rachel says quietly, but they both see Kurt roll his eyes.

Rachel’s smile falters, but then she hums for a second to get her pitch and then begins to sing. Santana doesn’t know this song—she likes some musicals, but mostly stuff that happened after at _least_ 1970, or musical films—and she has to admit she doesn’t know for sure what the accent Kurt was talking about is supposed to sound like, but Rachel is rolling vowels around in her mouth in an exaggerated way that seems right, like the vaguely annoying quality her voice is taking on is supposed to be there. Kurt just folds his arms through the song.

Santana applauds lightly at the end, after the last soft, drawn out “loverly,” and Kurt grunts, “It’s definitely not good enough.”

Santana raises her eyebrows at him, “Seriously? I thought it was…it was good, okay?” she grinds out reluctantly, “Look, I’m not a Broadway diva like you two, and I don’t know this song, but I know when something sounds good. She was clear and confident.”

“Yeah, she sounded great, all right,” Kurt mocks, “Spot-on accent and all.” He gets up. “Yeah, _good luck_ with that,” he says pointedly as he goes into his room.

Tears are swimming in Rachel’s eyes as she darts past the couch into their bedroom. Santana puts her face in her hands, and in that moment, it makes sense. She must’ve been too tired to put it together before. She had felt a dull sense of jealousy when Rachel had told her she was about to try out for an off-Broadway play and had wondered, _why didn’t Rachel tell me about this?_ Kurt must be feeling that times about _a hundred_ right now, because that was _so much_ more his dream than Santana’s and…

She grabs her phone to text Quinn.

 

 **Tana: SOS K had a jealousy freakout**  
**over R trying out for shows and now**  
 **Rachel’s cryin in our room. I know ur**  
 **better at cheerin her up than me, can u**  
 **call her?**

 

**Q: On it.**

 

Quinn responds so quickly it almost scares her when her phone buzzes in her hand, and as soon as she hears Rachel’s phone blaring the _Buffy_ theme song (she’d finally changed it; Santana supposed it was getting confusing to have both her ringtone _and_ her texttone be a clip from “Defying Gravity”), Santana knocks on Kurt’s door, ready to tear him a new one.

Because, she can’t even really say when or how it happened, but she really doesn’t like to see Rachel Berry upset.

 

_It was you who once again quickened my spirit_

 

Rachel _is_ crying in her room, from a mixture of frustration and despair. Things with Kurt were going so well, she felt sure they were back to being close-to best friends again, and Kurt, as far as she can tell, has _no reason_ to be this petty. He had flat-out assured he when he asked to move up that he was over NYADA, and she feels certain he wouldn’t have come up if he were still upset about that. But he’s also brutally honest to a fault, and though _brutal_ is definitely more of the word here, there must be some truth to it. He isn’t the type of person to lie about something like this. So she figures there _must’ve_ been something wrong with her performance, which is baffling, because she’s been working on it really hard.

So really, there’s no point in trying out. She’s clearly not ready.

Her phone blares to life and she jumps a little, wiping her eyes. A slight smile peeks out when she sees that it’s Quinn, but when she answers, she knows her voice is lower than normal, and winces at her less-than-peppy tone.

“Hello, Quinn.”

“Hey, Rach,” Quinn greets warmly, “I wanted to tell you to break a leg for your audition today. At least, I think it’s today.”

“Thank you. And no, it’s tomorrow.” She knows she sounds dull, lifeless, but she just can’t force herself to sound happy. She doesn’t _want_ to be fake around Quinn.

There’s a pause, and Quinn hesitantly queries, “Are you nervous? You sound…”

Rachel sighs heavily and then mutters, “I’m…reconsidering auditioning.”

“Oh. Why?” Quinn asks, and her voice is forced neutrality; Rachel _knows_ Quinn must be disappointed in her, and it makes her _ache_ , but…

“Kurt…made me realize I’m not ready.”

“Kurt did, huh?” Quinn says, her voice just a touch dry. “What did he say?”

“Shouldn’t you be in class right now?” Rachel asks, suddenly noting the time, and maybe she _does_ have Quinn’s schedule memorized; she doesn’t want to embarrass her best friend by texting her in the middle of class just on the off-chance that Quinn forgets to silence her phone…

“Cancelled,” Quinn responds breezily, “And nice deflection there.”

“I learned from the best,” Rachel shoots back, smiling a little in spite of herself. It occurs to her vaguely that Quinn _hasn’t_ been very deflective lately. She’s been open, at least, about some things—when asked directly. But she still doesn’t volunteer much information about herself.

“You wound me,” Quinn drawls wryly, “And because I’m the best, don’t think I didn’t notice that that was _another_ deflection. So tell me. What did Kurt say?”

Rachel gnaws her lip and then sighs, “He just…he told me my song wasn’t nearly ready. Told me my accent was wrong—you remember the song I chose, right?” Quinn hums her assent, “And just…said I wasn’t good.”

There’s silence for a few seconds, and then Quinn softly says, “Rachel, you do know that Kurt is jealous of you, right?”

Rachel scoffs before she can help it, “He _was_ , but we moved past that. That’s not it.”

“No, he _wants_ to move past it, but he definitely hasn’t. Can you imagine how hard it must be for him to live with you, to watch you going to the classes _he_ wishes he could go to, trying out for things _he_ wishes he could?”

Tears prick Rachel’s eyes without warning, “I’m not rubbing it in his _face_ —“ she starts defensively, and Quinn—

“I know, sweetie,” she soothes, “It’s _his_ problem, and he _will_ get past it, but meanwhile…you can’t let his jealousy force you to hide how amazing you are. And you are amazing, and _so_ talented. And I believe in you.”

The tears in Rachel’s eyes are there for an entirely different reason this time, and she manages to croak, “You do?”

“Of course I do. And I’ll tell you any time you forget. You’re a shining star.” Quinn’s voice is that low, soothing purr that just makes Rachel close her eyes to _experience_ it more.

“Thank you,” she breathes.

“No need for that. You can thank me by singing your little heart out at your auditions.” The smile is evident in Quinn’s voice, “But now, I’d better get back to class.”

“Quinn Fabray! You told me it was cancelled!” Rachel squeals.

“I lied. You’re more important.” Quinn laughs, “Talk to you later, Rach. Break a leg!”

Quinn hangs up after Rachel murmurs “Thanks,” once more and Rachel just sits and smiles at her phone for a moment. She shakes her head. How did Quinn know she needed to leave class to call her? Did Santana…? But then, how would Santana know that _Quinn_ was exactly the person Rachel needed to hear from? Maybe she or Quinn were just a little bit psychic, like she was.

A few minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” she says softly.

Santana enters first, her eyes fierce, and Kurt follows, his eyes downcast. Santana stands by her bed with her arms folded, like a guard dog, while Kurt approaches Rachel, swallowing.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, “I was…I was an inconsiderate imbecile. I should have been proud of you, but I was jealous and insecure…”

“I’m sorry, too,” Rachel starts to say.

Santana interrupts sharply, “You have nothing to apologize for, Rachel.”

She shakes her head, because, though she didn’t intend it maliciously, she knows, however thoughtlessly, that she made the decision not to share audition information. Perhaps instinctually hoarding opportunities, she _wanted_ to be the only one trying out. “No, I do. Kurt, I’m sorry that I haven’t been encouraging you to audition with me. And you, too, Santana. I have my ear to the ground for these things at school, and I should be sharing the information with you. I should be helping you two with your dreams. I just…Santana, your schedule is so weird, and Kurt, you _just_ got to town, I didn’t know if you were ready…”

“Don’t,” Kurt says, staring at his house-slipper clad feet, “I should be looking, too. It’s my responsibility. And I need to learn to be _proud_ of you instead of jealous—and I’m working on that, I really am. You’re an amazing person and a great friend to even be talking to me right now,” he finishes with the ghost of a smile.

“It’s because you’re amazing,” she returns, “I admire _so much_ about you, Kurt. You’re brave, and honest, and unapologetically _you_! You are so much more true to yourself than anyone else I know.”

Kurt smiles a little at her compliments and responds lightly, “I dunno, you’re pretty true to yourself, too,” and shoots Santana a glance. She smiles and nods her agreement.

To their surprise, Rachel’s gaze shoots away and she mashes her lips together, shaking her head slightly. “No,” she says softly, “You are a far truer person than I.”

Exchanging an equally bewildered glance with Santana, Kurt decides to drop it and asks playfully, “Are you going to hug me now?”

“Of course, both of you,” Rachel breathes, standing quickly to squeeze Kurt and then Santana, who accepts and pats her back awkwardly, but gives Kurt an approving smile over Rachel’s shoulder.

Kurt relaxes and pulls a surprised Rachel into another hug, whispering, “Break a leg. You sound great.”

The beam he receives in response washes a bit of the envy from his brain.

 

_Apparently I’m digging it in_

 

It’s been several days since Santana told him to get his shit together (her words) and stop begrudging Rachel her chances out of jealousy, and subsequently he and Rachel hugged it out, so to speak. She had gone to her auditions, and though she hasn’t heard definitively about the on-campus productions, she did hear from the off-Broadway one. She’d been told they didn’t think they had a part for her in _this_ production, but she had been given information for several forthcoming productions they or their connections were planning, and was encouraged to please come back and try out for those, which…Kurt consciously quashes his jealousy, because that’s _good_ , they didn’t just brush her off…

Although he has to laugh when he finds out they tell her that, due to her height, some of the other roles they think she should go for are to play characters barely more than _kids_ , and…yeah. That does make him feel better, but then he finds himself worrying about the kinds of roles _he_ could be considered for, because…how many roles are there for guys with a hell of a countertenor, anyway?

Otherwise, he’s just been involved with a lot of work, which is necessary to afford living there. Thankfully, they like him there, and so far he’s kept pretty regular hours. He’s torn between being happy to be out of Lima and feeling slightly nostalgic—not just for Blaine, but because of the phone call he’d shared with his family earlier in the week, after his father had won the election—something that had overshadowed every other election result of the day for him. Even though they’d been fairly certain he would—polls had put him ahead through most of the campaign—it didn’t stop him from squealing and crying on the phone in excitement, and then letting Carole talk his ear off about how crazy it was going to be handling two households after January and about how DC was closer than Lima, so maybe he could visit there? It was nice, and exciting, and all he had wanted to do was hug his father in congratulations.

But he’ll see him before too long, because they’re starting to make plans to go home for Thanksgiving. Santana had been sighing and wringing her hands about work all day yesterday. She had requested off to go home for Thanksgiving with them, and it had been approved, but when she saw the new schedule, she had been scheduled on the days she’d been, supposedly, given off. After raging for a good while, then stressing about whether it could put her job in jeopardy to tell her supervisor about the error, she’d apparently finally approached him and gotten the time off. Her friend Helen, she reports, had been impressed, because apparently Black Friday is a “blackout” day in scheduling, meaning no one can request off, but Santana had managed it. She says it’s probably because everyone knows she’s lousy at customer service and she’d never been trained to ring register, and all of this is fine with her—if she never has to speak to a customer again, she’ll be happy.

It’s also Friday, which means it’s time for his and Mercedes’s weekly Skype date. It had been a regular thing when Kurt was still in Lima, and his schedule hadn’t been much more than occasional hours at the auto shop, time with Blaine, and time with Sam and the rest of the family, but now that his schedule varies so much, and Mercedes’s school is getting crazier, they have been struggling to schedule them.

Santana is lucky enough to have off on this miserable, rainy evening and is lounging around in what she calls pajamas, but what Kurt would call glorified underwear (what looks like men’s boxers and a men’s undershirt), and she just nods to him and Rachel, who had worked with Kurt today, when they come home. Rachel had checked the mail as they’d come into the apartment and is now disappearing into her bedroom with an envelope.

He hears Santana’s heavy sigh as her dark eyes follow Rachel’s movement, and she grumbles, “If I have to listen to ‘Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man’ one more time…” and he twists his mouth and nods his agreement. He loves the song, of course, and Barbra definitely does one of the best versions that he’s heard, but the fact that Rachel’s become recently obsessed with it is _definitely_ troubling. He hopes it means she’s focusing on the bad parts of Finn, but he really can’t know.

He had asked Rachel on the way home as they huddled under her umbrella together and now asks Santana if she Skypes with Mercedes, too, and her response is similar to Rachel’s—they mostly keep in touch on Facebook and occasionally text. They exchange messages back and forth sometimes, but mostly it’s a matter of commenting on each other’s statuses, which…that’s been a blessing. Pretty much everyone in the Glee club is on Facebook daily, and usually there’s at least one thing to comment on. They even got Rachel to join Facebook just before graduation, because most of them didn’t even have Myspace anymore, and those that did hadn’t been on in years—Kurt’s pretty sure he was way ahead of the curve when he deleted his account in eighth grade on Delete Your Myspace Account Day. But Facebook has made the distance seem not so bad, at least between friends; the distance between himself and Blaine is still _torture_.

Speaking of, when he launches Chrome after turning on his computer when he gets home from work, he sees he has a Facebook message and goes to check it.

It’s from David Karofsky, and he can’t help his surprise. He had…well, after David’s suicide attempt, he hadn’t heard much from him, even though it had felt like they might be on the path to friendship. It was too strange, with how responsible Kurt felt for his hospitalization, with how he now knew David felt about him, but they’d liked each other’s statuses a few times on Facebook, and that had felt like something, and…

Now, here is David saying, “I just wanted to let you know that I reached out to Blaine last month, and we’re working on being friends. We hung out for the first time yesterday. It’s great to have someone here in Lima who can kind of understand what I’m going through, but it’s made me realize I wish you and I had a real chance at friendship. I hope it’s not too late for that. I’ve had to reassure Blaine that this whole thing isn’t a way for me to get closer to you, had to tell him I’m over you, which is pretty much true, and I hope we can go from there.”

And, of course, Kurt tells him, “I’d like that very much, and I’m glad Blaine is there for you,” and proceeds to tell him about New York so far. Because, this sort of casual conversation is exactly where to start, as far as he knows.

It’s weird, though, that Blaine hasn’t mentioned this. Maybe Blaine _doesn’t_ really trust David and is waiting to see what will happen, but who knows?

He waits about ten minutes for Rachel to come back out to the living room, noting the watery look of her eyes and the forced smile. “What do you guys think we should do for dinner?” she asks.

Kurt shrugs, “I was just going to stir fry some broccoli or something, mix up a little Thai peanut sauce. I’m about to Skype Mercedes, though, do you want to say hi?”

“Of course!” Rachel smiles excitedly.

Kurt signs on and sees the little green phone next to Mercedes Jones’s icon, and grins. After a moment, her incoming call pops up and he answers.

“Took you long enough, girl,” Mercedes grumbles at him good-naturedly, “I should’ve known to tell you fifteen minutes earlier, then you’d be on-time.”

Kurt laughs, “Hi, Mercedes.”

“Hi, Mercedes!” Rachel echoes, leaning over the couch behind Kurt so her face is in the shot.

Santana grins and leans over and rests her head on Kurt’s shoulder so that she’s in the shot, too, “Hey, Aretha!” she greets, all the bite gone from her old mocking insult.

“Woah!” Mercedes smiles, “Hey, ladies! I didn’t know you all’d be home!”

“Yeah, it’s a shame we’re not talking on a Quinn weekend,” Kurt offers, “she practically lives here, too.” It’s an exaggeration, obviously, but it feels very natural every time she visits, that it seems like she belongs there.

Mercedes smiles fondly, “Oh, I know. She’s so happy every time she gets to visit you guys. But it’s so good to see all your faces!”

“You, too. You look great!” Rachel gushes, and Kurt nods his agreement. The west coast has been good for Mercedes. Even juggling classes and her budding music career, Mercedes looks well-rested and laid-back, and her hair is in simple soft waves and from what Kurt can see she’s wearing an attractive off the shoulder blouse.

 “Yeah, how’s LA?” Santana asks, lifting her head from Kurt’s shoulder so that she’s only partially in the camera now.

“Busy. But great,” Mercedes keeps it succinct, knowing that Santana and Rachel have gotten more detail from Facebook and texting than she needs to give at the moment.

Rachel excuses herself to go try to throw together dinner, asking Kurt if he wants her to make that vegetable stir-fry, which he politely declines, because he knows she’ll end up making it in the microwave, and to him, stir fry means actually using a _pan_ ; he doesn’t want soggy vegetables. Santana leans back over onto her side of the couch and picks her laptop back up, but half-listens to his conversation with Mercedes, occasionally cutting into it.

The conversation is mostly casual. Kurt updates her on his job, talks a little bit about how he occasionally gets to hang with Rachel on the job, but they are usually in different parts of the store, talks about some of their weird coworkers (the extreme hipster who meows quietly to himself, the gay guy who makes up stories about his drag queen alter ego that everyone pretends to believe, the exhausted grad student manager that everyone calls over to deal with difficult customers because she pretty much has a pass to be as rude as she wants).

Mercedes updates him on her classes and singing, and the classes are beginning to get crazy, and she has some upcoming studio time, but there aren’t too many interesting specifics on either front. Then she smiles and says, “I went on a date last night.”

“Oh?” Kurt asks, grinning, noting Santana glancing over with an expression of mild surprise, and sensing that Rachel has stopped what she’s doing in the kitchen and is peeking into the living room to listen.

“Yeah,” Mercedes says, “Nice guy. Kinda scrawny. I thought he was gay when I first met him, actually,” she says thoughtfully.

Kurt laughs, “Well, I thought the same about Sam, and let’s not forget your crush on _me_ …You may have a type.”

Mercedes rolls her eyes, but doesn’t comment, instead continuing, “He’s not a singer—he’s a flautist, actually, so I dunno if _that’s_ gonna work out. But, ya know. I’m not looking for serious, and we had fun. I might see him again, just to have a good time.”

“That’s great,” Kurt smiles, “One of us has to be a heartbreaker right now.”

Mercedes laughs, and says, “Oh, you’re probably breaking them and you don’t even know it. I’m just playing a more _active_ role.”

They laugh, and disconnect after a few more minutes of small talk. By this time, Rachel has settled in the armchair with a bowl of macaroni and vegan cheese mixed with peas. “Mercedes went on a date?” she asks, mildly confused.

“Yeah! Good for her, right?” Kurt responds, seeing Rachel and Santana exchange a concerned and confused look, “What?”

“Isn’t she…seeing Sam?” Rachel asks tentatively.

Kurt raises an eyebrow and then says, “No?”

“Really?” Rachel presses.

“Yes, really,” Kurt responds, “Look, I’m not entirely clear how they work, because I know they care a lot about each other, but I know that Sam made a point to…set her free, I suppose, when she went to California. He wants her to focus on herself and her career, and doesn’t want to be a distraction.” He smiles a little and shrugs, “Of course, that doesn’t mean they don’t talk frequently and probably love each other deeply. And I really assume that once Sam graduates, they will get back together.”

“That’s cool, I guess,” Santana says uncertainly, “It’s not something I’m capable of.”

“Oh, me neither,” Kurt cuts in, “I’m far too selfish to take that kind of chance on Blaine. I’d rather…weather the distance. But I’ve got to respect Sam’s sacrifice.”

Santana chews her lip, frowning a little, and her eyes shoot to Rachel, which confuses Kurt. He then takes note of Rachel’s distant expression.

When she notices Santana and Kurt looking at her, she gives a small smile and says with forced nonchalance, “Yes. I’m glad Sam and Mercedes found what works for them. I do hope they get back together someday, though, because they clearly think so highly of one another.”

And when she looks back down at her food thoughtfully, Kurt glances at Santana and catches her tight-lipped glare. He’s bewildered for a moment, until…

_Shit. Finn._

 

_It’s me who’s feeling strange_

 

When Kurt and Rachel come home after work the next evening, shaking out umbrellas and looking disgruntled with pants wet up to their knees (yes, Rachel had worn pants that day; Santana had nearly laughed out loud in shock at her fitted slacks), Rachel is holding multiple fancy-looking envelopes, and she distributes them to each roommate. Santana is the first to open hers, since she just tends to shred into them rather than opening carefully, the way Rachel and Kurt do. “Oh, it’s the invitation to Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury’s wedding,” she reports.

Everyone had gotten the save-the-date over the summer, but here, just shy of two weeks before the wedding itself (which is the day after Thanksgiving), the invitations finally arrive. Santana’s not all that surprised—Glee club had demonstrated that Mr. Schue is a chronic procrastinator—although she’d thought that maybe Ms. Pillsbury’s neurosis would have forced Mr. Schue to get things like this on track, but apparently not.

She reads the invitation and the small insert. The insert informs her that he wants current and former members of the Glee club to be his wedding party, says he has clothes currently being made based on their measurements for Nationals last year (here Santana bites her lip and hopes she hasn’t gained weight, as she fears), and that he pretty much just wants them to process in and sing “Don’t Stop Believin’” and “Somebody to Love” at different times during the ceremony, which…well, she’s pretty sure both those songs have been drilled into her head permanently, from all the times they warmed up with them, and figures Mr. Schue is making the current Glee club practice them as well, so…

She glances up to see Rachel and Kurt reading their invitations and then says, “Okay, am I the only one who thinks it’s weird that we’re his wedding party?” At Kurt’s sharp look, she continues, “Look, it’s different than your dad’s wedding, that was pretty spontaneous and he put you in charge of planning, so having us there was like, making the best of what you guys had available. But like. Doesn’t Mr. Schue have some adults he could have incorporated in the months he’s been planning this wedding?”

Kurt smirks and Rachel shrugs and says, “Well, Glee club has basically been his life for years. I think it’s nice that he wants to share his special day with us.”

“Yeah, I guess so, but man…he was our teacher, you know? It’s just… _weird_.”

Rachel giggles at this and says, “I’m not disagreeing, it’s _very_ weird, but I can see why he chose it this way.”

“This will be a mess,” Kurt muses, “There’s no rehearsal dinner or anything, we’ll just be…winging it.”

“So it’s gonna be like, every competition we were in, ever?” Santana asks pointedly, and they all laugh.

 

_What is behind that curtain?_

 

After her Skype date with Kurt, Mercedes checks the time. It’s getting late in Ohio, but she wants to talk to Sam, so she texts him to see if he’s still awake. It occurs to her that he might be working that night, and sometimes a last-minute pizza order pushes the time he gets out of work back by almost an hour. Inevitably, the last-minute pizza orderer doesn’t tip.

Sam gets the text just as he is tossing his jacket onto the desk chair in his room, exhausted from his night of delivering pizzas—Friday is always hellish. He smiles tiredly and calls Mercedes in response.

“Hey!” she greets warmly, and his tired smile shifts into a much more content one.

“How are you?” he asks, settling back onto his bed, and for awhile they give little life updates, though there’s not much to report, except that Sectionals is next weekend and, as usual, they still don’t know what they’re singing, because they’re spending too much time practicing music for Mr. Schue’s wedding. They also finally got a twelfth member only about a week ago; Brittany had convinced Ashley, one of the Cheerios who had danced with the Troubletones the year before, to join. Mercedes just laughs and sighs in response to the typical New Directions scramblings, but Sam assures her that the leadership board is meeting tomorrow to select some numbers.

As she finishes telling him about the new piece of music she’s been given to learn for her next studio day, he begins to sense her hesitation. He gives her a moment, but when he can still hear her uncertain breaths, he finally asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, “I just…I went on a date last night.”

Sam braces himself at the words, waiting for the wave of jealousy, waiting to wince, but it doesn’t happen. “Oh, yeah?” he says, surprised at how…eager his voice comes out.

“Yeah,” Mercedes says quietly, “Nice guy. Cute, I guess. I don’t think it’ll be serious, but…”

“Did you kiss him?” Sam blurts, shocking himself at the outburst.

“Sam…” Mercedes sighs, her nervousness giving way to a disappointed exhaustion.

“No, no,” Sam clarifies, struggling to articulate _why_ he asked, “I just…I’m not jealous,” when Mercedes sighs again, he emphasizes, “I’m _not_. I promise. I just want to know more about your date because I want to hear about you being _happy_.”

Mercedes is silent for a moment, and then finally says quietly, “Yes. We did. It was…nice, I guess.”

“Oh,” Sam says, his voice light, but not forced and…he pictures it. Some faceless guy, automatically he pictures him built like Kurt, because Kurt’s kind of cute for a guy, right? The Faceless Kurt Body Snatcher is kissing Mercedes, and she’s smiling into the kiss and enjoying it and… _oh_.

Sam shifts on the bed for a moment, trying to ignore the…the…

“Are you okay?” Mercedes asks worriedly.

“Yeah. Very, actually,” Sam says, and his voice is a bit breathy now. The silence that follows feels heavy, and he continues, “I really like hearing about you happy, Mercedes. I’ve told you before, I _want_ you to date, I want you to see what’s out there. Because if you choose me, I want you to be _sure_. And I don’t want you to hide it from me.”

She’s silent for a few more moments, and Sam shifts around again, and he’s conjuring up other images: Mercedes’s hands running down the faceless boy’s chest, his hands cupping her breasts, her eyes watching his face with rapt attention, his breath puffing before releasing a little groan, her eyes dark with want, his hips jerking slightly, her hands sliding to his hips, brushing past his… _fuck_.

When did his pants get this uncomfortable?

“I’m glad you’re okay with this,” Mercedes finally breathes in relief.

“I am,” Sam reassures, his voice thick, but not with sadness. He clears his throat as quietly as he can. “I can’t wait to see you for Thanksgiving, though.”

“Oh, me neither,” she husks, which _isn’t_ helping his problem…

He hangs up with her soon afterwards to take care of this startling problem and when he collapses back onto his pillow and stares at his ceiling, he feels a slight measure of panic rising in his chest.

What the _hell_ was that even about?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from Barcelona, “Come Back When You Can,” Sigur Ros, “Ara Batur” (translated, obviously, accuracy not guaranteed), The Naked and Famous, “The Sun,” Passion Pit, “Smile Upon Me,” and Laurie Anderson, “Born, Never Asked.” Other songs mentioned are “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly” from My Fair Lady, Nerf Herder, “Buffy the Vampire Slayer Theme,” “Defying Gravity” from Wicked, “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man,” from Show Boat (Barbra sings “That,” though), Journey, “Don’t Stop Believin’” and Queen, “Somebody to Love.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Helen: Santana's coworker friend, gay, does not know about Brittany, bought Santana alcohol for a party  
> Stu: Santana and Helen's direct superior at work


	14. I'm straight enough

_I’m straight enough_

 

Blaine sighs and sips his coffee, regarding the people around him. Sam, with bags under his eyes, sits roughly across from him, staring mostly at the tabletop. Artie’s wheelchair is next to him, the other boy drumming his fingers lightly against his own cup. Tina, on Blaine’s other side, looks irritable and sits with her arms crossed. Only the recently-elected Senior Class President Brittany seems to be as awake as he is, blowing on her hot chocolate and smiling slightly. The leadership board is present and accounted for and, hopefully, ready to attempt to select some songs for Sectionals.

“Come on, guys,” Blaine tries tentatively, “It’s eleven. We agreed this would be a reasonable time to meet.”

“Just didn’t sleep well,” Sam mumbles with a shrug.

“I’m just tired of picking up Mr. Schue’s slack,” Tina bites.

“Preach,” Artie agrees.

“You should just throw away his slack next time you pick it up for him,” Brittany suggests.

There’s a pause where no one seems to be sure what to say, until Tina says, “Good idea, Brittany, but we have to find it and pick it up first,” to which Brittany nods.

“So, let’s get started, then,” Blaine suggests with a smile, and with a few half-hearted grumbles, they get down to business, searching for one song that would be either a good duet or solo, and two ensemble pieces, preferably one with chances for solos or duets.

After an hour or so of suggestions, debate, humming, singing a few bars, Brittany bobbing her head to imaginary beats and picturing choreography, they select “Under Pressure” with Blaine and Artie leading, and a mashup between “Dancing on My Own” and “Till the World Ends” with Unique leading for their ensemble pieces, and a solo for Tina performing “Here Lies Love.” Artie had pointed out somewhere during their discussion that he’s pretty sure the reason the New Directions tend to score well is that their setlists usually show that the choir is not being carried by one or two people, but instead have a multitude of talent, so they’d done their best to express that with their choices.

Everyone seems relieved that they have made a decision and high-five (or fist bump, in the case of Artie and Sam) over the table in victory. They each take on a different part to work on before Monday, either choreography, arranging the mashup, writing out who sings what in the ensemble pieces, or figuring out whether to and how to shorten “Under Pressure” and “Here Lies Love,” to make them a more reasonable length. It will take time and effort, sure, but actually having something to work on takes some of the pressure off the assignment.

Brittany links arms with Tina and says that her younger sister has been looking forward to a _Rock Band_ rematch, which makes Tina grin. Artie begins wheeling out the door to call his dad, until both his exes notice and assure him that they’d be glad to drop him off at home, if he’s willing to let Brittany lift him into the car. He smiles his thanks, a bit awkwardly.

Blaine had intended to order another cup of coffee and read for a little bit, but when he sits up from pulling last year’s David Sedaris out of his bag, Sam is still sitting there, looking at him uncertainly. He smiles a bit, wondering if Sam feels cheated out of a solo, “Are you okay with the decisions we made today?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Sam assures, “But I was wondering if you had a minute? I…need to talk to someone.”

Blaine straightens and pushes his book and his empty coffee cup a little further away, minimizing distractions. “Sure. What’s up? Are you okay?”

“I’m…” Sam hesitates for a long moment, then rushes out, “questioning my sexuality.”

Blaine’s eyes widen and he leans back in surprise a little, and then he chuckles, “Well, as my own period of confusion was well-documented at that very embarrassing party of Rachel’s, I understand why you came to me, but if you’re looking to kiss a guy and see what you feel, I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

“No, no,” Sam says quickly, coloring slightly, “I just…” he runs his hands through his messy hair, “Okay,” he sighs, “I was talking to Mercedes last night and she was telling me that she went on a date.”

Blaine must clearly look surprised, and Sam looks up almost expectantly and says slowly, “Yeah. We’re not together, even though everyone thinks we are. Probably we will be someday, but now is just not a good time.”

“That’s…well, unusual,” Blaine mumbles with a little smile.

“Anyway,” Sam continues, “She was telling me about the guy she was seeing and…I…” he kind of stutters to a shaky stop and gestures downward vaguely.

“Oh,” Blaine says, eyes widening a bit.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes out.

“Well, what part of it was, um, arousing?”

“Uh, what?”

“Was it her description of him? Did you picture him as really attractive?”

Sam frowns, “No, actually. She was pretty vague about him and I didn’t really picture him very specifically. She said he was cute and that she thought he was gay at first so I pictured him with like, Kurt’s body, but I never pictured a face or hair or anything. And he was clothed.”

“Wait. What was he doing when you pictured him?”

“Kissing and touching Mercedes and letting her, uh, touch him.”

“Were you jealous?” Blaine asks.

“No! That’s the weirdest thing. I thought I would be, but instead it was just…hot,” he finishes.

Blaine sits back with a little smile, “Well. I have what is probably good news. I don’t think you’re gay. And you _probably_ aren’t bi, either, but I dunno, the fact that you pictured _my boyfriend_ in this fantasy…” Blaine teases a bit, and Sam just shakes his head and rubs at his face.

“Then why did thinking about this guy get me hard?” he asks bluntly.

“Because you were thinking about him with Mercedes. You’re…you like sharing your woman,” Blaine finishes by dropping his voice a little in exaggerated masculinity.

“Ugh. Can you…? Sharing just sounds…” Sam looks uncomfortable, his lip curling in disgust a little. “And, she’s not my woman,” Sam reminds him.

“But you have strong feelings for each other. I mean, that’s obvious. And you just told me she’ll probably be your girlfriend someday,” Blaine starts, frowning a little, “But…I’m not sure how else to say what you’re feeling. It’s just a kink.” Sam looks deeply displeased at this and stares off to his side, but Blaine knows he’s listening. “And it’s _harmless_. You’re not asking her to do anything she doesn’t want or that is hurting her, right? It could even be a good thing, you know, turning potential jealousy into arousal.”

Sam is silent for awhile, then says, “How can you even say that? Just a harmless kink? I don’t…I’m not…I don’t _want_ to think about her this way.”

“Because it’s normal,” Blaine assures him, “It’s normal for you and tons of other people out there. Just because it’s not normal for the majority of people on the planet doesn’t mean it’s not perfectly fine. And…I don’t know. Maybe you’ll feel better about it if you _tell_ her what you’re thinking.”

Sam blanches at this, “Absolutely not,” he retorts, “I don’t want her to think I’m sick.”

“You’re not sick,” Blaine tries. He sighs, “Look, I know we live in a world that makes people ashamed about sex and I wish I could tell you something that would make you feel better. I guess all I can suggest is read up on it. Listen to other people’s stories.”

Another few moments of silence, “So it’s a kink. I’m not gay.”

Blaine smiles, “So it seems. But in a way, it’s not all that different. You can’t help feeling like you do any more than I can help being gay. And from my experience? Reading about how other people handled coming out as gay helped me. It could help you, too.”

This doesn’t seem to reassure Sam, but for the sake of his own comfort, he seems to want to press the gay issue,  “So it doesn’t have anything to do with the guy, really. Just my feelings for Mercedes.”

“Most likely, yeah.” Blaine answers, abandoning his attempt to comfort Sam about the kink issue.

Sam looks barely relieved, “Not to be…condescending or anything, but I really wasn’t prepared to be gay.”

Smiling at him a little patronizingly, Blaine informs him, “You wouldn’t be anyway, considering how much Mercedes means to you. I think you mean bi?”

Sam shrugs, “That seems like it would be easier. I could still have Mercedes if I were bi. It just produced…such a strong reaction in me that I worried that I had been misreading my feelings for Mercedes all along.” He hesitates, “I’m not happy about it, but I think you’re right. I don’t want to focus on it, but at least I know what it is I need to ignore.”

Inhaling through his nose, Blaine tries to smile, “I think that’s a mistake, but you should do what makes you comfortable. And I hope you know that, even if we don’t agree about what you should do about this, if you need to talk to someone? I’m here for that.”

Sam grins his first genuine grin since the conversation began, “Thanks, man.” He offers his fist, and Blaine bumps it, “Buy you a coffee?”

“Now I’m really beginning to wonder if you’re bi,” Blaine quips to break the mood, and Sam grins and rolls his eyes, and they get up to get fresh cups.

 

_That was the custom come dawn_

 

Santana’s schedule has been irregular for several weeks, but is purely random now. She no longer is guaranteed to have weekends off, which is annoying, but considering Kurt and Rachel are incredibly busy most weekends, it’s probably not a big deal.

And the more stressful Santana’s schedule gets, the more she kind of starts to feel like she’s _providing_ for her household. Because she’s working so hard, and so frequently, and though Kurt works a lot too, he usually doesn’t get quite as many hours and he’s paid less, and Rachel, well, she’s a student, she’s obviously bringing in the least income.

So Santana makes a point to keep an eye on food supplies so she can stop by the 24-hour grocery store in her work’s shopping center on her way home. She usually goes twice a week, because of how fucking quickly she and Kurt go through milk and they all go though juice, and because there’s always something she forgets.

It saves Rachel and Kurt from making a trek to the grocery store—because, though they’ve borrowed her car once or twice to go shopping, they hate driving in the city. There’s also a grocery store sort of on the way home from their work that they stop at sometimes, but then they have to get back on the subway, and Santana hates to think of them walking home loaded down with heavy groceries.

Her shift tonight is actually with Helen, which isn’t always the case anymore since their schedules are no longer consistent, and they and some of the other guys who used to be on the remodel team but now work in the grocery section with them handle a truck delivery of fresh food. They’re still ironing out the kinks—the food is theoretically not supposed to be out of refrigeration for more than thirty minutes, and it’s generally on the floor for over an hour and a half before they get it all on the shelves, but management doesn’t seem concerned and just tells them to keep doing what they’re doing.

When they go to Starbucks for break, Helen buys Santana’s drink for her (lately she’s been getting either a latte or hot chocolate, now that it’s getting colder), because, as she says, they’ve wasted half their break in line and it’ll speed up the process. Santana thanks her, and checks her phone as they’re walking back to the car.

She sees Brittany sent her an email, and she checks it. It’s a YouTube upload of the New Directions performance at Sectionals. Brittany included the note, “choreography by me! look for me and tina during under presshure—we did an awesome spin!”

And even though she can’t watch the video now—or, she could, maybe, but she’s sure Helen would have questions and she’s not willing to put her badass cred on the line to admit she used to be in show choir—she loves that it’s waiting for her, and she can’t wait to watch her girl move.

So she puts her phone away and realizes after a moment that she’s sitting in Helen’s truck, holding a drink that Helen bought for her, and suddenly feels overwhelmingly guilty.

She _misses_ Brittany…so goddamn bad it hurts daily. But she’s here, hanging with Helen at work, rarely talking to anyone else because they just _click_ so well, and not even bothering to quash any rumors that they’re dating because Helen’s cool, and kind of cute, and she doesn’t _mind_ if people think she’s tapping that.

She’s probably a little distant for the rest of the shift, but Helen just takes it in stride, perhaps assuming she’s tired.

After work, she stops by the store to grab almond milk for Rachel (who had read recently that it was good to vary soy protein intake with other forms of vegetable protein, and occasionally swapped soymilk for almond or coconut milk), cereal, orange juice, tortillas, frozen broccoli, salad, coffee and paper towels. A pretty average grocery haul, and most of it for everyone in the apartment.

They save receipts, and try to more or less even out their spending by buying takeout for each other, or paying a little more toward bills, or with more grocery shopping, but sometimes Santana buys ice cream or cookies or something and doesn’t add them up on her receipt total. She just likes to give them a treat. Maybe it assuages her guilt for how much of a shit she used to be, but she doesn’t like to get that introspective about it.

When she gets home and puts groceries away, Kurt shuffles out of the kitchen in only pajama pants and sticks his hand up in greeting; he has one of his rare early work shifts today to help sort through and price a massive order of clothing before they open. By the time she’s ready to brush her teeth and get in bed, Kurt’s in the bathroom flossing.

She glances in the mirror and realizes immediately that she looks completely despondent, and when Kurt glances at her, she can see that he sees it, too. He drops the floss stick he’s holding and turns to her, his face absolutely heartbreaking. “Oh, _sweetheart_ ,” he murmurs, opening his arms.

She steps into them and smashes her face against his bare shoulder, and though she’s seen him without his shirt a few times now, she’s always startled by his chest hair, because he’s so clean cut. But she isn’t really thinking about that as she fights the way her shoulders are trembling while he holds her.

“I just miss her so fucking much,” she gets out, hating the whiny pitch her voice adopts.

Kurt hums comfortingly against her hair, “I know,” he murmurs, “I miss him so much it hurts. Believe me, I know. We’ll see them soon…”

They vaguely hear Rachel’s alarm go off, but don’t stop holding each other until Rachel approaches the bathroom, bleary-eyed. Her face morphs from exhausted to confused to horrified. “Oh my God. Are you okay?”

Santana pulls away from Kurt and wipes at her eyes, frustrated. “Yeah,” she grunts, “Just. Missing our, uh…other halves.”

Rachel’s eyes are bright and suddenly _she_ looks like she’s about to cry, and she sucks in a shaky breath and grabs Santana in a hug before she can even really react. She finds herself holding onto Rachel almost as hard as she’d held onto Kurt, and then Rachel pulls away and throws her arms around Kurt, tucking her head under his chin.

Santana stares at her, a little bewildered, as she pulls away from Kurt and gives them a watery smile. “I just love you guys. And I’m so glad you’re here with me.”

As Kurt presses a little kiss to the top of Rachel’s head, Santana tries to scoff, “Yeah, uh, you’re alright yourself, Berry,” dropping her eyes to her nails, and Rachel beams as if Santana had told her she loved her, too.

Which, really, she more or less has.

She goes to bed feeling a little lighter.

 

_Cause I don’t need another friend tonight_

 

Santana knows enough about Rachel to expect _something_ as her birthday approaches. She’s seen the way Rachel tried as hard as she could to make everyone’s birthdays special—she’s heard Quinn gush about her camera a few times, and remembers hearing about the nice set of headphones she’d gotten for Mercedes over the summer. Even people she isn’t _particularly_ close to, like Sam and to an extent Blaine, she’d been sure to be thoughtful of, even when money was tight.

She thinks that maybe she qualifies now as someone Rachel is close to, and that’s actually kind of fucking terrifying, because, yeah, much as she actually likes Rachel, the girl can be _intense_ about her friendships.

Her birthday happens to fall on a Saturday, the Saturday before Thanksgiving, in fact, and she’d managed to get time off for that Friday and Saturday, just because, why would she want to work on her birthday? So she actually gets the Sunday through Thursday workweek she’d been so used to instead of randomly spaced days off throughout the week. By the end of it, though, she’s exhausted, and sleeps until almost 5. It’s dark when she wakes up, which is disturbing enough—that she’d slept through all the daylight but the tinges of dawn that morning. She shuts off the little desk fan on her bedside table she’d bought for the sole purpose of white noise, since after it became too cold for their window air conditioners, she’d been woken up more frequently by her roommates, and shuffles out of her room. It’s unsurprising that the apartment is empty.

There’s a note next to the coffee machine, and if the neat, stylized handwriting isn’t a dead giveaway, the fact that the paper is printed with yellow stars would be. Rachel writes: “Good morning, Santana! This is just to let you know that I have rehearsal tonight! By their own admission, it will go quite late because we’re doing a read-through of the entire script, so don’t worry when I show up later than normal!”

Rachel had gotten parts in both of the school performances she’d tried out for—a secondary character role in an original play written by one of the upperclassmen, and a very small role for a performance of _South Pacific_ ; Santana doesn’t know much about that show, but Rachel had said she was cast as one of the little half-Polynesian kids, whatever that meant. Apparently her height and complexion—evidently her lingering summer tan had helped—made her one of the few students the director thought could pass as the role. Rachel was excited for the play—which, as far as Santana could tell, was some kind of modern re-telling of a Greek myth she knew nothing about, somehow set in a college setting—but still wasn’t sure if she was going to take the _South Pacific_ role. She was wrestling with the fact that a _star_ would have actual lines and more than just one duet in a performance and the idea that she has to start _somewhere_ if she wants to be considered for other roles in the future.

Either way, Santana appreciates the note, because she _does_ worry sometimes when Rachel is late. Or Kurt. It’s New York, and their neighborhood isn’t great, and Rachel is _little_ , and Kurt looks like he can barely throw a punch, they’re _targets_. It’s only natural to look after each other.

She just enjoys her day, relaxing, and after showering, throwing on sweats and the “sorry boys, I eat pussy” t-shirt Kurt had brought home from work as a gag gift a few weeks ago.

She becomes so engrossed in the _Seinfeld_ marathon she puts on that she almost doesn’t realized how hungry she is until after 11:30. The time makes her frown a bit, too, because no one is home yet. There’s a surge of panic; Kurt should definitely be home now. She realizes she left her phone in her room since she woke up and rushes to check it.

There’s a text from Brittany, just an incredibly cute picture of her in pajamas, winking and puckering her lips, and one from Kurt. She can’t help but text Brittany back (“u r so adorable, baby”) before checking Kurt’s text.

 

 **Lady Hummel: I’ll be home late!**  
**Coworker is having a little gathering at**  
 **his place, and I’m going to mingle for a**  
 **bit, to be polite.**

 

Well. That’s good then. She permits herself to continue watching TV, now looking on Foodler to see who’s delivering this late. She doesn’t feel much like cooking. She texts both Rachel and Kurt.

 

**Tana: If ur gonna be home soon, I’m  
about to order Chinese. Want anything?**

 

There’s no response. Five minutes pass and she’s about to just go ahead and order, because, fuck, she’s hungry, and she finally gets a response.

 

 **Berry: I will be home very soon! Can you**  
**wait to order? I’d like to examine the**  
 **menu.**

 

Santana sighs heavily, but acquiesces in her response. Another ten minutes pass, no Rachel. She’s actually getting annoyed at this point and is about to text Rachel, to make sure she’s okay, to ask if she wants her to meet her halfway or anything—because, _fuck_ , it’s late, she shouldn’t be out alone, when she hears the door.

“’Bout fucking time, I’m starving, Berry,” she hollers at the door—fuck noise complaints, she’s kinda pissed.

“Language, Santana,” she hears as the door cracks open a bit—Rachel must be carrying something, because the door doesn’t open fully. She frowns, staring for a moment, until the door swings open and she hears shouts of, “Happy birthday!”

Her mouth drops as Rachel, Kurt and Quinn pile in, grinning widely, and there’s a flash of Quinn’s camera on her no-doubt surprised face. She glances at her computer clock. 12:01.

She grins.

“You didn’t order, did you?” Rachel asks anxiously, and Santana understands why when she places a large bag of Mexican takeout in front of her. Her mouth waters. Quinn is tossing her old Cheerios duffle into the bedroom, and Kurt is carrying what appears to be a cake box, a mischievous grin on his face.

“Got something special for you,” he wiggles his eyebrows, but takes the cake box into the kitchen, “Don’t peek!”

Rachel is unpacking the takeout and gives Santana her favorite—huevos rancheros—while Quinn bends over the back of the couch to embrace Santana from behind. They all settle together around the coffee table and eat; and clearly, everyone else is just as ravenous as Santana is, which makes her feel half-guilty and half-appreciative that they delayed eating just so they could eat with her. She ends up asking, “Were you guys really at rehearsal or a co-worker’s party?”

Rachel and Kurt exchange grins, “No,” Rachel admits, “Those both happened earlier in the week, when you were at work and wouldn’t really notice if we got home late. We just saved the convenient excuses.”

Santana smiles a little. Sneaky bitches.

They allow the _Seinfeld_ episodes to continue running, but no one is really paying attention, and after they eat, Kurt asks about the bottle of champagne on the kitchen counter.

Santana is glad her complexion is dark, because she’s sure she’s blushing, and hopes it’s not visible, “That was my birthday present from Helen,” she explains. The calendar at work had everyone’s birthday on it, so even though she would prefer coworkers not know her birthday, unfortunately they do. Helen had presented her with the bottle of champagne, which Santana would have refused if she could have, because it seemed like too much, but instead, here it was in her apartment.

It’s not fair that she can’t really pinpoint the lines of their friendship, that she has no idea whether the way they interact is normal or not, whether it seems like a work-friendship, an actual friendship or something else. All she knows is that she sometimes feels guilty, and this is one of those times.

“I do worry about all the alcohol we’ve had in this apartment,” Rachel admits.

“Oh, come on,” Santana laughs, “We’re adults. I think it’s bullshit that as legal adults we can’t decide to drink. Besides, we’ve been doing this since the beginning of the summer and we’ve been cool. Nothing bad happened, ‘cause we’ve been careful.”

Rachel twists her mouth, “I’m not a legal adult yet.”

Santana shakes her head, embarrassed, “I keep forgetting you’re so damn young. How’d you manage that, anyway? Still, I’m not worried. Like I said, we’re careful.”

Rachel nods, agreeing reluctantly, and briefly explains to Santana that she’d managed to get enrolled in kindergarten when she was four because she’d been able to prove she already knew her ABCs and numbers. Kurt pours them all some champagne and says, “Now, don’t drink yet, we need to have a toast, and we can’t do so until we cut the cake.”

Winking, he heads back into the kitchen, and as he walks back in holding the cake box, he, Rachel and Quinn start to sing “Happy Birthday.”

Santana grins, watching Kurt, even though it’s clear there are no candles on the cake. As they finish the song, he lays the cake box down in front of her with a flourish and…

She bursts out laughing.

They got her an erotic cake, shaped like a pair of breasts.

When she finally stops laughing, about two minutes later, Kurt smirks, “I knew you’d like it.”

“What better way to celebrate your birthday than with a few of your favorite things?” Quinn asks with a grin. Rachel perks up at the allusion to the song she loves, but then grins fully at Santana.

“Shall I propose a toast?” Rachel asks. Kurt gestures with his hand in a way that indicates she has the floor and Rachel stands, smoothing her dark blue dress and clearing her throat. “Happy birthday to one of the fiercest women I’ve ever met. To someone who stands strong and proud, whose confidence is inspiring, who is so beautifully protective of those she loves, and who is secretly one of the sweetest people I know. And who will take the world by storm. Happy birthday, Santana!”

“Hear, hear!” Kurt hollers, and they raise their glasses, and Santana feels her eyes welling up, which…she hates that she cries to easily, and yeah, she’s incredibly touched to hear what Rachel thinks about her, but right now? She doesn’t feel like _any_ of those things, because she’s just sitting here, working a shitty job she _hates_ and languishing in the misery of being _without Brittany_ and she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s supposed to do next.

They clink glasses and drink, and Quinn shifts over to wrap her in a hug when she sees the way her eyes are watering, and she composes herself against Quinn’s shoulder and then they cut the cake.

“I feel like Dexter or someone cutting this cake right now,” she grumbles when the knife slides into the left breast. She shivers a little, and offers the slice to Rachel.

“Make sure you get the nipple piece,” Kurt says with a small giggle, and Santana snorts.

“How’s it feel to have tits in your mouth?” she asks the group at large a few bites in, leering mostly at Kurt, because Rachel doesn’t tend to react in humorous ways to this kind of teasing, and Quinn mostly stopped reacting awhile ago due to overexposure to her and Brittany.

Quinn unexpectedly chokes slightly on her piece, and Rachel just laughs, lucky enough to not have her mouth full when Santana spoke. Kurt blanches and composes himself, wiping his mouth haughtily with his napkin, and sighs, “the things I put up with for you.”

As they eat the cake, Quinn excuses herself to use the bathroom, and when she comes back, she drops a package in Santana’s lap. Santana grins and asks, “can I open it now?”

“No, Santana,” Kurt drawls sarcastically, “We just want to build suspense.”

Santana prods his shoulder with a grin and opens it to find…a copy of _Super Smash Brothers Brawl_?

“What is this?” Santana asks, clamping down on the urge to just say “what the hell” because _that_ would be rude.

Quinn grins a little sheepishly. “Like I said, I’ve been hanging out with a bunch of geeks lately, and I’ve been giving video games a chance. I know you guys have a Wii, obviously, and I asked for some recommended games, and this seemed your style. I mean, you can make Mario and Sonic beat each other up.” She shrugs, “It looks fun, and, you know, you can get more out of your Wii.”

Santana grins a little, “Okay, yeah, this does sound fun, and I will admit to playing a little bit of Xbox with Sam and Puck back in the day. I’m not opposed to video games.”

Kurt shrugs, “I never quite got the fascination with _Call of Duty_ that Finn and Sam shared, but I’d play occasionally, mostly to attempt to bond with them. I’d love to beat you up on here, Santana.”

Rachel’s quiet a moment and then smiles, “It looks weirdly cute. I’ll try it.”

“Great!” Quinn grins, and after a moment, Rachel fishes something out of the hall closet and plunks a large package next to the couch and Kurt thrusts a package at her from his shoulder bag.

She opens Rachel’s first, because it’s _huge_ , and as she’s opening it, Rachel admits, “This is partially a selfish gift,” which makes Kurt snort, but he doesn’t say anything. Rachel and Quinn shoot him matching half-glares, and Santana suppresses her own chuckle.

She opens it to find a new-looking record player, a Tina Turner record and a Whitney Houston record, both clearly used, but _still_. “Where did you even get a record player?” she asks in bewilderment.

Rachel laughs a little, “Even though we’re only supposed to get used clothes at the store for our thrift section, sometimes we get other things. These showed up all together and I immediately thought of you. Once I ascertained that the record player was, in fact, functional, I had to get it for you.”

“That’s kind of cool,” Santana grins, “I’ve never really listened to a record, I don’t think.”

“It’s supposed to have a warmer sound,” Rachel explains, “I’m excited to hear it.”

She grabs Kurt’s gift, which has the tag, “To: Santana From: The Homosexual Agenda” and she laughs. “What the hell?”

Kurt chuckles, “That’s what I used to call you, me, Britt and Blaine in my head, like when all faced off with Sebastian, or when we sang that part all together at Nationals. Anyway, Blaine helped me with this gift.”

She opens it and the first thing she sees is a little stuffed white unicorn with rainbow stripes and she is torn between bursting into tears because _Brittany_ and laughing hysterically, so she hugs it and nuzzles it against her cheek. She sees everyone exchanging amused glances at this and says, “Whatever, bitches. It’s fucking adorable.”

“Language,” Rachel reproaches quietly, half-heartedly.

The other part of Kurt’s gift is Barack Obama’s memoir, which, yeah, she has been interested to read—especially now that the election is over and she gets to admire him for four more years—but is surprised Kurt and Blaine thought of it, so her eyebrows rise. Kurt shrugs, “It seemed to fit.”

“I have wanted to read it. Thanks, Kurt,” she says, and then there’s like a group hug as Rachel rises from the armchair, and Quinn and Kurt both lean over, until Santana just says, “Alright, alright, enough of that, let’s beat each other up.”

“Great!” Quinn grins, and heads into the bedroom, coming back with two controllers. “I borrowed Stephanie’s GameCube controllers, so with your two Wiimotes, we should all be able to play.”

And so somehow, they end up drinking champagne and playing _Super Smash Brothers Brawl_. Santana chooses Link kind of randomly (“who is this? Legolas?”), Kurt chooses Pit (“whatever, he’s pretty”), Rachel chooses Pikachu (“aww, it’s cute!”), and Quinn chooses Peach (“girl power, bitches”). They’re all trying to figure out the controls, which are more confusing for Santana and Kurt, who are using the Wiimotes. Rachel figures out how to make lightning come down from the sky and pretty much does that constantly, but any time another character comes near her, she seems to panic completely, and moves her controller along with her character, squeaking in terror. For Santana, this seems to awaken a predatory response, and she pursues Rachel relentlessly when this happens, but Quinn seems to take pity on Rachel and just go smack Santana around every time Rachel panics. They keep almost knocking Kurt off the edge, but he flies back up. Santana mostly just gets near people and beats them with her sword repeatedly, and Quinn keeps winning, with killer bitch-slaps that just knock people out of the rink.

And, yeah, it’s completely ridiculous, but Santana can only imagine a better birthday celebration with Brittany there.

 

_Grab your things I’ve come to take you home_

 

Thank god that it’s only a few more days until they go home for Thanksgiving.

Santana’s time off is finally sorted out, and she, Kurt and Rachel are planning to leave Wednesday morning, as soon as Santana gets home from work. Santana can’t help but be a little anxious about the fact that she’s only working three days this week, because, that’s a cut to her income, obviously, and she hasn’t earned any vacation or personal hours yet to make up for it. But it will probably be okay.

They’re driving, because they calculated that it would probably be cheaper to split the cost of gas between the three of them than the price of plane tickets, especially on the biggest travel day of the year. It’s going to be a long, hellish drive, more than likely, but that beats asking their parents for money to fly home (which they know their parents would gladly give them, but they each have a measure of pride from the fact that they are now _adults_. More or less).

Her Tuesday night shift, she’s there alone, no Helen, but instead, in the middle of her shift, she gets a text from Helen.

 

 **Helen Work: hope you have a good t-**  
**giving. see you when you get back if I**  
 **survive black friday.**

 

It makes her smile, but…yeah. She doesn’t really know how to respond.

Most of the shift, though, she spends using maybe a quarter of her brain to stock shelves throughout the grocery section, while the rest of her brain thinks about Brittany. Who she’s going to see _so fucking soon_. Who she’s going to make writhe under her, who she’s going make so fucking loud that they’ll wake up Rory, who she’s going fucking _bury_ her fingers in…

Every time her fingers flex, around a box of noodles, around the plastic covering trays of juice bottles or canned goods, she feels them as if they’re flexing inside Brittany, and sometimes her eyelids flutter when she feels the motion of her hands.

And it’s kinda awkward when it registers that she’s standing in the soup aisle, fucking soaked, listening to one of the guys jamming out to Skrillex on his phone a few aisles over, and another guy singing along to unknown Latin music a few aisle the other way. So on her second break, she composes an email to Brittany outlining all the things she wants to do to her, squirming in her seat in the break room, and _jesus fucking christ_ she can’t wait to get…home? Back to Lima? She doesn’t know what the place is to her right now.

She punches out to go home five minutes early, not even caring if something like that will get her in trouble—she honestly doesn’t know—and drives home. When she opens the door to the apartment, she sees her rolling luggage and computer bag next to the couch where she’d left it before work, along with a few other bags. Rachel is pouring coffee into thermoses in the kitchen, a big bag of granola trail mix tucked under her arm, and Kurt smiles at her around a piece of toast.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Just let me change my clothes.”

They go down to her car a few minutes later, load up the trunk and half the backseat. Kurt takes the wheel, Rachel the passenger’s seat, and Santana slumps in the backseat, already putting her earbuds in and queuing up a Kaki King album, which, yeah, Kurt would make fun of her for listening to “lesbian music” right now, but whatever, it’s incredibly soothing and will hopefully drown out the two chatterbox divas in the front seat. Because, honestly, Santana is not planning on driving at all during this trip. She’s hoping to sleep through most of it.

Up front, Rachel and Kurt turn on some Cher, volume respectfully low, and Kurt takes a deep breath. “God, I haven’t really driven for months,” he murmurs. Rachel pats his arm soothingly, and he shifts into drive and eases them out of their parking space.

And they’re lucky, that traffic _out_ of the city is relatively light right now, and honestly, they’re hoping it won’t be _too_ awful to get to Ohio, despite the fact that it is such a big travel day.

By the time they get on the highway, Santana notches the volume of her iPod slightly higher, and the voices of Kurt and Rachel, quietly singing “Walking in Memphis” together fade into the steady low roar of the car’s engine and the wheels on the road beneath the airy guitars of Kaki King, and Santana dozes.

 

_Lately my heart’s been breaking_

 

And she successfully kinda dozes for much of the trip, waving them off in irritation when they stop at a gas station about an hour and a half into the trip, mostly to pee because of all the goddamn coffee those hyperactive divas have been guzzling, but also to fuel up because Santana hasn’t needed to get gas in about three weeks.

She does wake up the next time, when they stop at a Sheetz for lunch in western Pennsylvania. She’s fucking starving and, for what is basically a suped-up gas station, they have good food; she inhales her bacon, egg and cheese and hashbrown and even nabs a few of Kurt’s fries (which he was glad to part with, because, as he admonishes, fried food is bad for one’s complexion). Even Rachel found a vegan wrap that she likes.

She’s a little more awake now, but still manages to doze off and on for a bit longer, listening to the Boy Friend album Tina had gotten obsessed with recently (she had kept posting YouTube videos on Facebook, and when Santana finally rolled her eyes and listened to one, she found she actually enjoyed how soothing it is).

She kind of wakes up fully when they’re still about four hours or so from Lima. Rachel, at the wheel now, smiles at her in the rearview mirror when she notices Santana is sitting up and pulling her earbuds out. “Did you manage to get enough sleep?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Kurt turns to smile at her and turns up the music up front. “Roxie Hart,” from _Chicago_ is blaring now, and Santana would roll her eyes if not for the fact that, yeah, she’ll admit it, she likes _Chicago_. It’s the movie soundtrack version, too, which surprises her, but whatever, the movie was hot, Catherine Zeta-Jones was flawless, and Santana has always loved Queen Latifah.

After they finishing singing along to what’s left of the soundtrack, Kurt puts on some Celine Dion, which makes Santana groan loudly, so Rachel turns it down. Santana huffs, but at least she’s not blaring in her ears.

After a song or two, Rachel finally says quietly, “I’m a little concerned about Mr. Schue’s wedding.”

Santana smirks, “Well, I think we discussed that it’s going to be a hot mess, but it’s really not worth it for us to be concerned.”

“No,” Rachel explains, “I’m worried about…Finn will be there, right?” she glances briefly at Kurt.

Kurt’s throat works for a moment, and he says, “Yes. My dad said Finn will be in town basically just for Thanksgiving dinner and the wedding and then will head right back. Now that he’s in AIT, he has a few personal days that he can use, and it looks like he’s using them on this.”

“I thought as much. He’s Mr. Schue’s best man, right?”

“Wait, seriously?” Santana interjects, but they ignore the outburst.

“Yes. So he was going to be there come hell or high water.” There’s a pause, and Kurt says softly, a hint of question in his voice, “Yesterday was his birthday.”

Santana wants to facepalm, because she _knew_ this. She _knows_ Finn’s birthday is three days after hers, but it hadn’t crossed her mind until now why Rachel was so quiet yesterday, not at all the manic whirlwind packing for vacation she’d expected her to be.

“Yes. I sent him a card.” Rachel says stiffly. Kurt nods.

There are a few beats of silence, and then Rachel says, so softly Santana has to lean forward to hear her over the music, “I don’t want to see him.” Santana and Kurt just look at her a moment, glancing at each other only momentarily, and Rachel changes lanes to pass a car while they wait for her to continue speaking. She takes a breath, and her voice comes louder. “I want to get over him, I really do. At this point in my life, I just can’t reconcile a relationship with him while living in New York. I can’t make him fit into the life I have cultivated there thus far.” She bites her lip and accelerates a little more, probably unintentionally, “But he makes it _so_ hard. All those letters…he’s _so_ sweet and charming, and whenever I read one, I _want_ so badly to make him fit back into my life.”

After a moment, Kurt says tentatively, “Finn is…not without his flaws. One of which is that he always wants what he can’t have.”

“Something I think we’re all familiar with,” Santana says, “I mean, look, we all wanted Finn at one point or another for pretty much that reason. Kurt, don’t even, your crush was embarrassingly obvious, and you knew he was straight. Even I wanted him, and I mean, hello, gay. But I was trying to fill Q’s head-bitch shoes when they vacated, and Finn was a part of that package, and he was frustratingly stuck on Q and Berry at that point. I wanted him for the reputation, which, when it comes down to it, is probably part of why Quinn wanted him, too. Rachel, you maybe wanted him at first for similar reasons we had, but you’re also probably the only one of us who _ever_ wanted Finn because you were actually in love with him. And he knows that.”

“Yeah,” Kurt agrees, “And while I don’t think he’s being malicious…I mean, have you written him back? Letters, I mean?”

“Twice,” Rachel admits, “And they were perfectly friendly in tone. As was the birthday card I sent—very simple. In my letters, I simply told him what was going on in my life and thanked him for the updates about his. There was not one romantic word.” She sighs, “I could be friends with him one day, I wish for that, but it’s too early, and he’s clearly pursuing something I can’t do right now.”

“Oh, he knows what he’s doing,” Santana grumbles.

“What are you going to do?” asks Kurt.

“I really don’t wish to speak with him. Seeing him will be difficult enough.”

“We’ll protect you,” Santana says fiercely, “We’ll make sure he keeps his distance.”

Rachel shoots her the ghost of a smile in the rearview mirror, “Thank you, Santana. And if he manages to speak to me, I’ll just tell him I want him to stop writing to me. It’s getting too hard.”

A few seconds of silence, and then Kurt squeaks uncertainly, “That’s what she said?” Santana and Rachel both stare at him for a full two seconds (though, Rachel’s eyes do flick to watch the road) before bursting out laughing, effectively shattering the dour mood, and Rachel ends up taking the next exit to stop at a gas station so they can all catch their breath.

Kurt drives the very last leg to Lima, and begins to drive toward Rachel’s house first—a good choice, thinks Santana, since Rachel probably doesn’t need to see Finn’s house or his family right now.

When Kurt pulls up to the curb, Santana is unsurprised to see the front door of the house open almost immediately, because seriously, Rachel’s parents are like overenthusiastic puppies when it comes to their daughter.

What does surprise her is that Quinn follows out right behind them.

Rachel pushes open her door and sprints towards her fathers, who engulf her in hugs and kisses. And then, as the two men turn to greet Santana and Kurt, who are getting out of the car, Rachel buries herself in Quinn’s arms, and Quinn holds her for a few seconds longer than even either of her fathers had.

Santana and Kurt accept hugs from Rachel’s fathers, and then from Quinn as Rachel retrieves her bags. Quinn ends up grabbing Rachel’s rolling luggage, and Rachel stops to hug Santana and Kurt before heading inside, everyone waving at each other.

She regards Kurt, trying to figure out if Quinn hanging out with Rachel’s dads seemed strange to him, but his expression gives nothing away, so she texts Brittany to tell her she’s almost home, which earns her the response:

 

**Britt-Britt: I kno, baby, im here waiting  
for u.**

 

And just like that, she stops thinking about anything but her girlfriend, and leaves Kurt’s after dropping him off so quickly she doesn’t even greet Burt, Carole, Sam or Blaine.

 

_Grandma, I’ve been unruly_

 

Coming home to Brittany is a blur. She can barely remember greeting her parents before dragging Brittany upstairs and kissing her against her bedroom door, moving her body languidly against her, panting against her mouth. They finally fully come up for air about fifteen minutes later, lips swollen, necks marked by tiny nips, clothing rumpled. This had just been a warm-up—fifteen minutes of _heavy_ making out to whet their appetites—pun intended, she thinks—until they go to Brittany’s later.

“Hi,” Brittany smiles, pressing one more kiss to Santana’s mouth.

“Hi, baby,” she grins, “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, sweetie. But your mom said dinner was ready like, when you got here. I kinda forgot to tell you.”

Santana snorts a little, “Oh my god. She could’ve knocked or something.” And it’s only now that the smell of her mother’s enchiladas fully registers in her mind; she swears until that moment, she had only been able to smell Brittany’s skin and hair.

They head downstairs, Santana a tad sheepishly, but Brittany seems completely unperturbed that Santana’s parents are fully aware of why dinner was delayed—if not assuming something more graphic.

She gives both her parents another hug and kiss, because honestly, while she thinks she might have given them one when she first came in the house, she’s not entirely sure. Her father merely smiles, but then, he’s always been a quiet man, and her mother gives her a peck on the cheek as she pulls away, smiling widely.

And her mother’s cooking is just as delicious as she remembers, so the relative silence of the meal doesn’t bother her at first, until it becomes clear that there is…tension between her parents.

Santana finally puts down her fork and cuts to the chase. “What’s with you two?”

Her mother raises a warning eyebrow; she loves that Santana is a strong, assertive woman, but she expects some respect from her, after all. But when her daughter’s expression shows she’s fully aware that something is wrong, Maribel Lopez knows she needs to tell.

She glances at her husband, who just nods soberly, and then turns to Santana with what she hopes is a placating smile.

“It’s about dinner tomorrow,” she explains quietly. She watches as Santana’s expression changes to apprehension, and Brittany’s to pure concern as she watches her girlfriend.

“What about it?” Santana asks warily, and Maribel knows that Santana has already guessed.

Maribel purses her lips and finally admits, “Your _abuela_ is threatening to not attend if you are there.”

Santana leans back, slowly, and folds her arms over her chest. Brittany’s hand trails down her arm, and Santana’s relinquishes her grip on her upper arm to hold Brittany’s hand, her arms still folded.

Dr. Lopez finally speaks, his soft voice informing Santana, “I tried to talk to her. She will not be moved. If you go, she stays. If you stay, she goes.”

Santana sits, chewing the inside of her cheek for almost half a minute. Brittany’s eyes never waver from her face. Finally, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in through her mouth, letting it out slowly through her nose. When she opens her eyes, they’re slightly watery, and she says quietly, her voice rough, “I’ll have Thanksgiving dinner elsewhere.” She turns to Brittany, “Do you think I could join your family?”

“Of course, San,” Brittany says earnestly.

Maribel aches.

She wants Santana to be angry. She wants Santana to stand up to her grandmother. She hates to see this defeat and despondence in the eyes of her child.

But she knows that every person in the Lopez family is stubborn, and set in her ways. Santana will never change for her grandmother; she will wait forever for her grandmother to accept her.

Maribel wishes more than anything that she could save her daughter from this heartache. That she could just tell Alma Lopez that they are going to have Santana there whether she likes it or not. But she knows she has to let Santana decide. Dr. Lopez had pointed out that if they had ever let Santana know that they’d blacklisted her _abuela_ from a family event because of her, Santana would have been angry.

And Maribel really doesn’t know what the right decision is here, but she respects the one Santana has made. And all she wants to do is fix it.

But she can’t. And neither can Santana.

She holds her daughter in an extra-long hug before she goes to Brittany’s house for the night, until Santana squirms slightly and pulls away, forcing a smile and saying, “Love you. I’ll see you after dinner tomorrow.”

At Brittany’s, Santana is so down that she just lets Brittany hold her for about half an hour. Everything she had been dreaming of doing to and with Brittany on this very bed is purged from her mind and she lays, just feeling so fucking _sorry_ for herself.

When her phone erupts with Azealia Banks, she has almost no intention of answering, but eventually sighs and lifts her head off of Brittany’s shoulder to answer. She frowns when she sees it’s Rachel.

“What’s up?” she asks dully.

“Santana?” Rachel asks, “I realized I forgot to tell you that you’re welcome at my family’s Thanksgiving celebration. We eat pretty late on Thanksgiving—at around 7—so you could even come after your own family’s celebration if you want. Noah and Quinn will be there with their families.”

Santana finds herself smiling, because, yeah, Rachel’s a good actress, but she knows her well enough now to know that she didn’t “forget” to invite Santana. Somehow, almost certainly because of Brittany, she knows Santana’s plans fell through, and the sneaky bitch is trying to be there for her.

“Thanks, Berry. I might show up.”

“You’re very welcome. So I’ll see you tomorrow? Around 6?”

Santana smirks, “Sure. See you tomorrow.”

And somehow, just knowing that she has so many people out there who love her, _because_ of who the fuck she is, well. Her spirits lift, and she kisses Brittany deeply. She can feel Brittany smile against her mouth, and slow hands undress each other, and it’s not the frenzied, rough, desperate encounter she’s been dreaming of. But as Brittany languishes nips and kisses on her breasts, as she wraps her legs around her body to press together slowly, and especially as she finally comes apart with a keening cry as Santana’s fingers pump slowly, her lips and tongue sliding against Brittany’s clit in the softest, wettest, sweetest of kisses, she realizes, it’s better. And when Brittany slides down the bed beneath her to return the favor, humming softly in approval at the first lap of her tongue, Santana rocks gently against her mouth and lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles are from Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “Maps,” The New Pornographers, “Challengers,” Penguin Prison, “Fair Warning,” Peter Gabriel, “Solsbury Hill,” Memoryhouse, “Lately,” and Purity Ring, “Belispeak.” Other songs mentioned are Queen and David Bowie, “Under Pressure,” Robyn, “Dancing on My Own,” Britney Spears, “Till The World Ends,” David Byrne and Fatboy Slim feat. Florence Welch, “Here Lies Love,” “Dites-Moi” from South Pacific, Cher, “Walking in Memphis,” and “Roxie Hart” from Chicago. I imagine Azealia Banks, “212” for Santana’s ringtone. Not all the albums I mention in this update are specific in my mind, but the ones that are include Tina Turner, Private Dancer, Kaki King, …Until We Felt Red, and Boy Friend, Egyptian Wrinkle.
> 
> As far as I know, no such mashup exists between the Robyn and Britney Spears songs. I can kind of hear in my head that there are certain sections that could mash well, but, eh, I figure the show has made more questionable song decisions than this.
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Helen: Santana's sarcastic gay coworker friend, both work overnight in food section because they don't like people, but enjoy working together  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, enjoys video games and nudges Quinn into being more social


	15. Privately divided by a world so undecided

_Privately divided by a world so undecided_

 

Although no one blames him, of course, Puck knows he’s part of the reason they’re doing Thanksgiving so late this year.

It had been one of those Rachel things. It wasn’t a big extended-family holiday for her family—they tended to gather on Jewish holidays or Christmas, when it was possible. It never really had been for Puck’s family either. Some years, they’d barely celebrated, especially since his Nana had fallen ill and then passed away—she had been the one who really knew how to dress a turkey. Some years, his mother hadn’t even been able to take off work, and he and Sarah had gone to friends’ houses—he’d usually gone to Finn’s, which was barely any less lonely, but hey, Carole could cook—or, in the case of one exceptionally depressing year, he and his sister had heated up a few Hungry Man turkey dinners and watched football together, despite Sarah’s loudly purported disinterest in the sport.

Quinn had asked him a few months ago if he would consider Thanksgiving with her family, since it is just going to be her and Judy, and the previous two years had been incredibly awkward; Frannie had made an appearance with her husband and daughter, before heading off to also visit Russell and his new wife, and the entire rest of the extended Fabray clan. Apparently, Frannie is trying hard to be a neutral party in the splintered family. This year, however, Frannie is going to dinner with her husband’s family, and Quinn is sure that a two-person Thanksgiving would be even worse.

Puck has a theory it’s because Quinn is thankful for Beth and will be thinking about her a lot (which might just be because he thinks about her, too), and, since they finally had a chance to talk about their lifelong bond through Beth, she wants him there for that reason, but she never voices it and he never asks.

Puck had accepted, because despite their immense differences, his mother and Judy Fabray had come to some sort of understanding at some point, and were _friendly_ with each other, though not friends, as far as he could tell(but then, the only thing he’s ever been able to reliably read in older women is attraction, so what does he know, really?).

But then Rachel had gotten into the mix, and had invited both Quinn and Puck and their families without seeming to know a thing about their plans to celebrate together, telling Quinn she knows that her Thanksgiving is probably going to be quite lonely, and telling Puck that she’s always wanted to celebrate _some_ holiday with his family, and while she envisioned maybe the Seder or perhaps Hanukkah as an appropriate starting point for their families’ beginning a tradition of celebrating together, she has realized Thanksgiving would be a wonderful opportunity to come together because, in part, she would actually be in Lima (yeah, all that in one breath, too; Puck had never quite figured out how someone who was so tiny and like, mostly legs, had enough room in her torso for the lung capacity Rachel Berry displayed on a daily basis).

Quinn told him her mother was eager to get to know Quinn’s best friend and her family better(which, _yeah_ , the first time he heard Quinn call Rachel that, he did a bit of a double take, too, even though he’d seen himself how close they were getting), and when Puck asked his mom if she wanted to go to the Berrys’s for Thanksgiving, she had been grateful, “They’re such a…mostly devout family, I’ve always liked Hiram and little Rachel. Plus, that’s so much less cooking for me.”

And…that’s a thing they’ve never really talked about, but he’s known Rachel pretty much their whole lives, from going to temple together as kids. They were even sort of friends when they were much littler, until Puck realized how uncool it was to have girls for friends, and he’d proceeded to ignore her until high school, when he started to build his reputation with slushies that were also meant to make her keep her damn mouth shut about just how well she knew him.

But the major reason Thanksgiving dinner is so late is because of Puck’s job.

After he’d driven Kurt to New York, he’d felt…kind of worthless. It isn’t really a new feeling, because even though in some ways he’s been _sorta_ mature for his age group, kind of owning his own business and all, everyone else had these plans that took them so far away. California had been nice, but it hadn’t felt like the right _time_. So he is here in Lima cleaning pools, which, after Labor Day is pretty much a non-business, though the warm autumn has given him slightly more work than normal, but it won’t last. There are very few indoor pools in Lima, after all.

But when his mom tells him she is going to start charging him rent, he seethes and slams things around for a few hours before agreeing. It would probably be better that way, for the money he’d earned for the family to go to her in a more regular, measured way than the things he used to do—pay for pizza to be delivered, or buy some groceries, or pay the electric bill when he notices it’s due in a few days, or whatever.

And with that hanging over his head, he realizes that even though the rent she’s charging is quite low, he can’t do it with just the pool cleaning business. He suspects, too, that she’d really only said it because he’d spent pretty much the past month holed up in his bedroom, playing Xbox. He’d really only seen Sam and Kurt, until Kurt left. And Artie a couple of times, but as his house isn’t really wheelchair friendly, Artie doesn’t exactly drop by much.

So he hits the streets. Lima is pretty economically depressed, he realizes quickly—though, this isn’t a surprise, he’s heard the news reports, even if he doesn’t dwell on them. But the want ad section in the Lima News is only like two columns long, and one of the columns only wants people with letters at the end of their names, LPNs and shit like that. The other column is a lot of seasonal work—UPS is hiring Christmas delivery crews already—and things he just isn’t quite qualified to do—he hasn’t completed the computer certification courses they want receptionists to do, the manual labor jobs all want people with previous experience.

He feels stuck.

Until he notices the diner.

He’s been there a few times—everyone has. It’s a little greasy spoon diner close to McKinley High, where kids would gather before school on days school was delayed due to icy conditions; the city was pretty good about clearing the snow and salting the ice quickly, giving the kids plenty of time to grab breakfast together and make the most of the delay. Usually days like this overwhelm the diner, which only has about ten tables.

But there’s a sign on the door, handwritten with marker on a piece of notebook paper: “Help Wanted: Cook.”

And there’s the thought that, well, this isn’t really something that will get him somewhere, this really isn’t a _career_. It’s something he can gladly walk away from at any time, but he might get a useful skill out of it.

So maybe, if, someday, he has his own place and a pretty girl stays over, he can cook her breakfast in the morning.

It’s this silly, semi-romantic fantasy that has Puck smoothing a hand over his head as he prepares to walk in. He’d shaved off the mohawk when his job search began, and its absence is still somewhat distracting, just another thing he reaches out for to find missing. He should write that down, he thinks.

He steps in and sees it’s pretty empty, which, as it’s around three in the afternoon, he supposes it’s not really surprising. There’s a couple eating burgers at one of the tables, and the waitress is leaning against the counter talking to a middle-aged woman sipping a coffee. It’s decorated with a bunch of kitschy cows and chickens and shit. A radio is playing top-40 type stuff.

Puck approaches the waitress, who glances up. He vaguely recognizes her; he thinks she was a few grades above him at McKinley, and there’s a uncertain look of recognition on her face, but she gives him a smile and, seeing that he’s not sitting down, says, “Hi, are you ordering something to go?”

“Uh,” Puck is almost fucking stuttering, which so isn’t cool, “No, I’m here about the, uh, job?” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the sign on the door.

“Oh, okay,” she shuffles through a drawer under the cash register and hands him an application, “Go ahead and fill this out. Want a coffee or anything?”

“No, thanks,” he remembers his manners, and starts scribbling down his information. He realizes halfway through that he’s actually looking at a photocopy of a job application for a nearby gas station, and wants to laugh, but whatever, it works.

The waitress tops off the coffee of the woman a few seats down the counter from him, checks on the couple with the burgers and then disappears in the back. She comes back out and starts gathering up bottles of ketchup and refilling them from a massive metal jug, but despite her focus on the task, she notices right away when Puck straightens after finishing the application, and she takes it, “All done?”

“Sure,” he says, moving as if to rise.

But she cuts in, “Wait here. The boss is in the back, and if he likes what he sees, he might want to talk to you.”

Puck smoothes his hand over his head again and prods his toe against the stool next to him, suddenly nervous. Is this his first job interview? Damn, he never really had to interview with people who wanted their pools cleaned, just took off his shirt. The woman with the coffee gives him an encouraging sort of smile before going back to her newspaper.

The girl comes back out and grins at him, “Always wondered what your first name was, Puckerman. Georgie’s waiting in the back. Just keep heading down the hall, past the kitchen.”

Puck nods and starts walking. He can hear a different radio now, one in the kitchen, playing classic rock, and can hear the whir of fans running. At the end of the little hallway, where the waitress had pointed, is, from what he can tell, a storage room. He can see a rack with all manner of dry goods on it, and one of those long refrigerator cases you see in grocery stores, but as he steps in, he can see a bald man, probably in his fifties, behind a desk off to the side. The room is hazy, from the cigarette balanced in the ashtray, he guesses. The man is clicking away on a laptop, but looks up as Puck walks in.

“Noah, right? Have any experience cooking?”

“I go by Puck,” he’s brave enough to say, “And, I mean, just in the sense that I cook at home sometimes. Never, uh, professionally.” He’s not being entirely honest, because grilled cheese sandwiches are about the extent of his home cooking, and even _those_  ends up burned half the time, but whatever.

The man stares a few more minutes, then says, “Well, that’s fine. You’re easy on the eyes, and it might even be easier if you don’t know what you’re doing in a kitchen. Look, you’ll wash dishes for the first week and I’ll have my other guy train you, and then we’ll start having you cook. Can you start tomorrow?”

“Uh. Yeah, sure.”

“Okay. See you at 8 tomorrow morning. Then you can have the weekend off and come back in Monday.”

“Great. Thank you, sir.” It’s hard to get the word out, but he says it.

The man smirks, “Call me Georgie, it’s fine,” he says with a wink.

Puck heads home kind of dazed, amazed to have a job.

And the first week or so is kinda weird. He is washing dishes, sure, but the regular dishwasher shows up as well, so he mostly feels kind of useless. When it is busy, he mostly feels like he’s in the guy’s way, and when it is slower, the cook, Billy, a stocky guy about his mom’s age with glasses and a shaved head, teaches him to cook.

And he’s not bad, he guesses, and Billy is pretty patient, letting him try again when he breaks egg yolks or burns pancakes. Billy’s been cooking for years and has all sorts of tips for how measure how long something should cook—poached eggs take about as long as it takes for a piece of toast to come through the conveyor belt toaster, for over-easies, take the time to butter the toast and then flip them, fries take about four minutes, but onion rings take a little less. There are different sections of the grill that have different heat settings, so put pancakes toward the back, he needs to make sure to turn on the fryer at least half an hour before they start serving lunch at 10 so it has time to warm up.

At around 7:30 in the morning and again at 11:30, it gets so insanely busy that Puck has no idea how Billy keeps up with it all. Sometimes he doesn’t, and the waitresses bring back plate after plate with errors on them. Puck doesn’t know how Billy keeps his cool, but aside from a few muttered curses, the man is pretty unflappable.

The waitresses, too, impress Puck. There’s the girl he went to school with, there’s a woman in her fourties who’s been waitressing for almost thirty years named Trixie (no, really), and there’s a guy who’s a part-time college student. There’s usually one on each shift and they have a busser. Puck really has no idea how they remember so much; Billy can ask things like, “Did table six want lettuce and tomato?” and they won’t even hesitate to answer.

Billy tells him they’re open for dinner only on Thursday and Fridays, and that things change up for the weekend. They have an evening cook—a high school dropout even younger than Puck named Malcolm—and an evening dishwasher and busser, both high school students, and those three all tend to also work the weekend shift. The waitresses (servers, Puck thinks, because one of them is a guy, though Georgie calls the waitresses “his girls” in spite of the guy) switch off the weekend shifts. Billy has been working seven days a week since the last cook quit, and when Puck is ready, they’ll probably give him Monday by himself, Wednesday with Billy, have him come in in time for the lunch rush and stay through the dinner rush with Malcolm on Thursdays and Fridays, and either Saturday or Sunday, probably trading off.

For the next two weeks, Puck shadows Billy during the day and Malcolm, who seems friendly, during the evenings, until Georgie says he thinks Puck can handle Monday by himself; Billy exhales in obvious relief, having not had a day off for almost a month.

Puck’s first week of real cooking happens to be the week of Thanksgiving, and when he finds out the diner is open for Thanksgiving, his mouth drops open.

“Are you joking?” he asks, “Who in the almighty fuck eats at a diner on Thanksgiving?”

Billy just gives him a look, “When you spend a little more time at the window, you’ll start to notice most of our customers are the same folks, over and over again. Swear to you, some of these people don’t own stoves. Come in here three meals a day when we’re open.” He grins, “There are at least five families I’m sure we’ll see here for Thanksgiving, as well as some of the single folks, the bachelors and widowers or whatever. And some of the truck drivers passing through who come here every time.”

Puck can’t believe it, and when he tells Rachel he won’t get out until about 6:30, she tells him it’s okay, because the Berrys don’t eat Thanksgiving dinner until about 5:30 or 6 anyway, and they’ll be glad to wait for him.

He’s not sure if she’s lying to spare his feelings or not, but he won’t ask. He reflects that’s it’s probably a good thing the Browns aren’t playing on Thanksgiving, because he somehow doubts anybody at the Berry house is gonna let him watch football.

 

_I am neither sister, brother, son or daughter_

 

Quinn makes it back on the Monday before Thanksgiving, taking an afternoon flight that doesn’t come in to Columbus until pretty late that night, even though her Thanksgiving break had started on Friday; obviously, she’d been in New York for Santana’s birthday at that point, and probably would have just stayed to drive home with them if her mother hadn’t already bought her a plane ticket home. So she’d headed back to New Haven, where an excited Stephanie, who wasn’t heading home until Tuesday, insisted they hang out as much as possible. When Quinn arrives at the airport, her mother is there to pick her up, and Quinn can tell they both feel slightly wary of the other; what might have changed in the past few months? But when her mother hugs her carefully, Quinn smiles, and briefly feels the surge of unadulterated love for her mother, just as if she were five-year-old Lucy again, and still cute, and still her mother’s little girl at the apple of her father’s eye.

She pulls away at bitter thoughts about her father and she and her mother smile at each other warmly. Judy had called her every week or so, but it had still felt so weird to attempt to have the kind of relationship where they try to relate to each other as friendly adults that their conversations had been short, and a little awkward.

In person, it’s a little better. As they drive home, Judy tells her she got a bonus at work, she planted some bulbs for spring, and after she found out from Mr. Berry (Quinn has no idea which one she means) that she wouldn’t have to worry about the turkey, she’d donated the grocery points she had accumulated to buy a turkey for a family in need. Quinn tells her the smallest details about Stephanie, Steve, Sean and Lulu, tells her she’s doing well in her classes and really enjoys the Romantic period poetry they’d read in her composition class.

Judy smiles a little and says, a tad tentatively, “I told Frannie we would call her on Thanksgiving, so maybe we’ll do it in the early afternoon, before we go to the Berrys’s? I know she’ll want to talk to you.”

Quinn forces a smile. Frannie, God, where to start? She was just too much older than Quinn for them to have been close as children, regarding Lucy with jealousy when she was quite young and showered with affection, complete indifference when Lucy began to get awkward and bookish, and seething fury when Lucy became Quinn, and somehow managed to be a better queen bitch head cheerleader than Frannie had been—she’d earned the title much earlier, and with the nose job, especially, Frannie seemed to believe that Quinn was legitimately prettier. This animosity had lessened some when Frannie seemed to actually delve into college and find her niche, though tense conversations throughout Quinn’s freshman year proved that the resentment still existed, and when Quinn got pregnant, Frannie had seemed to revert to complete indifference again. She’s claimed, telling Quinn in confidence last Christmas a few drinks in, just before heading to their father’s house, that she had really been sympathetic, but since Russell was paying for her husband’s graduate school, she didn’t want to risk upsetting him. Quinn had no way to know if that was true or not; it seemed plausible, but a damn lot of good it did her now, to hear about how Frannie had felt awful for her but couldn’t even spare her a phone call.

However, she supposes that little confession from Frannie had made it easier to see her after the accident. So many memories of this time are hazy, but she has a vivid one of Frannie sitting at her bedside, clutching her hand, tears on her face. She’d been able to come down for about half of a very hazy, drug-induced week, but Quinn can remember Frannie trying to put on a brave face for her whenever doctors came in the room. It had been…not nice exactly, but _something_.

Still, Frannie is someone Quinn has almost always looked up to. She is smart—perhaps not as smart as Quinn, but her age had been to her advantage, giving the younger Fabray the chance to look forward to learning the things her sister already knew. She was gorgeous, and when Lucy realized she was not, she burned with a mix of jealousy and admiration, and tried so hard to repress that jealousy, because she knew it was wrong to covet. Even now, though Frannie had gotten married right out of college and had a kid and was planning for a second child, she has a career, and though getting married and reproducing (again) that young is not something Quinn wants, nor is Frannie’s career as a high school biology teacher, she admires that Frannie didn’t choose to just be a housewife. She had fought her very traditional husband for a chance at a career, and had won.

There’s this weird mix of mutual resentment and admiration between them that Quinn supposes will define their relationship their entire lives. She doesn’t even know if they’ll manage an entirely natural, civil phone conversation, but it’s not like she can refuse to talk to her.

Quinn mostly relaxes and catches up on her sleep when they make it home, since she hadn’t slept well for the past several days; Santana’s birthday weekend had involved little sleep, as on Saturday night they’d gone out dancing at a 16 and up club, or maybe it was a club having an 16 and up night (Santana had complained about the age range and Rachel’s ridiculous youth, but it hadn’t been serious complaints). Regardless, they’d had their hands stamped as they went in and so couldn’t order alcohol (Rachel had absolutely forbidden the use of any Puckerman-acquired fake IDs, mostly because she was sure they were not of a caliber that would pass in New York, and everyone pretty much had to agree with her on that), and had a great time dancing and singing and laughing together. It had been especially great to see Santana wearing one of the tight, short dresses she favors—bitching about the cold even bundled up in a peacoat—since until that point, Quinn isn’t sure she’d seen her in anything other than pajamas or her work uniform, and Santana had been obviously eager to get dressed up (Quinn remembers hearing her muttering that she never had a reason to dress up these days). And when Quinn made it back to New Haven, she’d spent Sunday staying up late because Stephanie had insisted they play as many video games together as possible before Quinn had to leave. So Tuesday she sleeps in and relaxes.

Wednesday morning, however, Quinn awakes with a purpose. Rachel, Santana and Kurt are coming back to Lima today, and even though she’s seen them so recently, she’s excited to see them again. Particularly Rachel, who promised her an _X-Files_ and _Ally McBeal_ marathon that evening, which is perfect, because it’s just like the first time they _really_ hung out, the time that she knew Rachel could be her best friend. Because all she’d ever wanted in a friend was someone who she could talk about whatever she wanted—or watch whatever she wanted—without feeling like she had to measure up to some standard. Rachel gave her that. In spite of the fact that…things have been strange between them lately, she still looks forward to their time together more than anything. She thinks it’s Finn’s fault, actually. She knows Rachel is getting letters from him—she _saw_ one, and she saw in Kurt and Santana’s expressions that it was not the only one. And she can see in Rachel’s expression that she’s hurt about _something_ , but Rachel isn’t sharing this information with Quinn. And, fine, maybe there are things Quinn isn’t sharing with Rachel, but she’s always appreciated that she believes she _could_ tell Rachel anything. She hopes, though it’s more of a wish at this point, that Rachel feels the same way, and tries to suppress her bitterness and just enjoy the parts of their friendship that still feel close.

But before she seeks out Rachel, she has something she must do.

Her mother only works a half-day today and gets home at around 1. Quinn hands her a cup of tea, which makes her smile gratefully, and asks if she can borrow the car for the rest of the day. Her mother acquiesces.

Quinn slowly drives the familiar route to a development not far from her own, and her stomach twists slightly with nerves. This is something she’s needed to do for far too long, and she just has to make herself vulnerable for a few minutes. She parks, walks to the front door, takes a breath, and knocks.

After a few moments, _she_ answers, her face changing from curiosity to warmth immediately. “Quinn,” she murmurs, “How are you? Are you okay?”

“Hi, Mrs. Jones,” Quinn responds quietly, fighting the unexpected tears. She’d seen the woman very briefly at graduation, but they hadn’t really spoken, and now, faced with the woman in the flesh who had done so much for her…Quinn chokes a little.

Mrs. Jones wraps an arm around her and brings her into the house, speaking over her shoulder in a voice that is barely raised, yet holds unquestionable authority, “Mitchell, a glass of water, please!”

Quinn settles on the couch, wiping her eyes, and watches as a young man, about her height with closely-cropped hair, brings her a glass of water. Mercedes’s brother, who she’s never met, must also be home for Thanksgiving—is he finished with college yet? She knows so little. He lingers uncertainly and, probably hearing the commotion, Dr. Jones comes down the stairs. “Quinn,” he says, his soft voice, which must be so good at soothing kids who fear the dentist, full of concern.

“I’m okay,” Quinn finds the words to assure them. She’s incredibly glad that Mercedes isn’t here, which she knew would be the case. She keeps in touch with Mercedes as well as she can and knows her friend will be arriving in the late evening tonight.

“I’m okay,” she repeats, taking a sip of water, “Everything is fine. I’m home for the break with my mother, but, as it’s Thanksgiving…” She trails off for a moment, and Mrs. Jones rests a hand on her back. “I just needed to tell you, even though it’s so extremely overdue, how thankful I am for all of you.” She swallows another tiny sip, and this time it feels like some of her pride goes down, too. “You took me in when I had no one, when I was scared and miserable and alone. Even you,” she smiles at Mercedes’s brother, Mitchell, apparently, “You maybe didn’t even know I was there, but you let me use your room. And I am so grateful to all of you, for everything you’ve done for me, and I know I can never repay you, but I just had to tell you. I thank God for you and your generosity.”

Mrs. Jones rises from the couch, gently takes Quinn’s water and places it on the table, and offers her hands to Quinn, and pulls her into a hug. Quinn draws a shaky breath and allows the woman, who will probably always be the epitome of “mother” to her, to hold her. And it’s…kind of _ridiculous_ that she feels this kind of attachment. She hadn’t lived there long, barely long enough that she had started to stare at her own pale skin, mildly disconcerted at the way it seemed to flush red at the slightest provocation—and yet, the welcome and warmth she’d felt from these people who had no _obligation_ to her and yet took her in…it had left its impression.

Dr. Jones and even Mitchell hug her, too, but no one seems to have any words, until Mrs. Jones finally says, “We never expect repayment for caring for someone in need, Quinn. And you know you’re welcome here at any time.” Quinn nods, feeling somewhat ashamed, because she’d avoided the house for so long, because of how uncomfortable it is for her to feel like someone’s charity. How was it so much easier for her to ask Artie’s forgiveness than to acknowledge her debt to someone—even knowing her debt would be forgiven, too? But this is something like atonement, too. Atoning for forgetting, ostensibly, her forgiven debt.

And when she leaves the house, after assuring them that she and her mother have adequate Thanksgiving plans, but thanking them for the offer to join theirs, she tries to accept that some people are capable of acts of selflessness out of love. That maybe someday, she’ll be able to accept kindness, and offer it without selfish motives.

 

_I try to imagine a careless life_

 

The next morning, Santana wakes up at around 11, which is strange in itself, to wake up when the sun is still shining, but she supposes napping in the car, never particularly restful, and then being all emotional the previous night are why she was able to fall asleep so early. Brittany’s awake and out of bed, which is mildly disappointing, but, as if the girl has a sixth sense, she enters the room when Santana is sliding on a borrowed pair of Brittany’s sleep shorts that she fishes out of her dresser.

“Hey,” Santana smiles, crossing the room, still topless, to give her a kiss. Brittany smiles and lets their lips linger, until Santana pulls back—mindful of her need to brush her teeth—to ask, “Mind if I borrow?”

“Sure, baby,” Brittany grins, nuzzling her cheek as a hand lazily and seemingly mindlessly meanders up Santana’s side to stroke the underside of her breast. Santana lets out a ragged little sigh and smirks, but Brittany pulls her hand away and mutters, “Oops, I’d better behave. Do you want breakfast? I mean, we’re probably gonna be eating around 2, so…”

“Maybe just a piece of toast and some coffee,” Santana says, “But I think I’d maybe like to grab a shower before I go downstairs. I mean, it’s been over 24 hours since I last showered, and I also kinda reek of sex,” she winks. Brittany giggles and nods, and Santana throws on yesterday’s shirt and heads to the bathroom, grabbing a spare towel and washcloth from the linen closet as she goes.

Freshly showered and smelling deliciously of Brittany’s shampoo and body wash, hair slathered with enough conditioner that she hopes it won’t frizz—that’s what she gets for forgetting her toiletry bag at her parents’ house, though—Santana walks downstairs into a war zone; she sees Rory sitting in the adjoined living room watching TV as she enters, and he shoots her a terrified look, but this time she knows it’s not directed at her, it’s a warning. And, well, Lopez Thanksgiving is usually crazy, with several aunts, uncles and cousins driving into town in a mostly Puerto Rican and Dominican mob. Kids tousle for the good seats, adults chatter and pray loudly in a mixture of English and Spanish, and everyone is always laughing.

Pierce Thanksgiving is usually just Brittany’s immediate family and one of her mother’s brothers and his family, but Mrs. Pierce is rocketing around the kitchen as if she’s preparing to feed the entire Lopez clan. Brittany is there, too, working alongside her mother with impressively few words actually passing between them, and she smiles before passing Santana a mug of coffee and a little plate with a piece of toast on it. Santana manages to find a place on the counter to set them down, but there’s no chair nearby, so she stands and eats, watching transfixed as the two blondes mash potatoes, knead dough, mince cabbage, peel apples.

Santana stands sipping her coffee, waiting to see if there’s anything she can do to help—she shoots Rory a half-hearted glare at the fact that he’s not trying to help, but it softens slightly when she notices he’s watching _Adventure Time_ with Brittany’s little sister. It is pretty cute how well they get along. Mr. Pierce enters the kitchen after a few minutes to check on the turkey, which Brittany tells Santana as an aside that he’s been working on since six in the morning. He’d also, apparently, made cranberry sauce from scratch the previous day.

By the time Santana is finished with her coffee, Mrs. Pierce stops dead in the middle of wrapping sweet potatoes in tinfoil and slaps her forehead. “Oh my god!” she exclaims.

“What is it, Mama?” Brittany asks.

“Oh, I completely forgot about drinks! We’ve only got milk and a little bit of lemonade! We’ll need more…”

“I can run to the store,” Santana offers, “Is anything open today?”

Mrs. Pierce bites her lip and sighs, “I think the Meijer is, and oh, I hate to make work for the poor folks who have to work today…”

“It’s okay,” Santana assures her, “I’m sure we aren’t the only ones who need something last minute.” She thinks briefly to her job, and how she’s sure it’s actually been pretty busy in the grocery section, and she smiles briefly at the fact that _she_ doesn’t have to deal with it. She’s tempted to text Helen a “sucker!” but she’s not sure if that’s okay in their friendship, and she internally squirms.

Brittany’s mother scribbles a quick list of a few things—more lemonade, Coke, Sprite, diet Dr. Pepper, sparkling grape juice, orange juice. Santana can’t imagine this will all be necessary, but then, there’s no way the rail-thin—courtesy of their Dutch genes—Pierce family is eating the feast that’s being prepared, anyway, so she just goes with it.

A quick peck goodbye from Brittany, and Santana drives across town to the grocery store. It’s not that busy, but there are a decent number of people there carrying baskets with a few things in them, clearly last minute things. Santana notices things like store endcaps now, and sees the ones bearing canned cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie filling are quite sparse, and the boxes of stuffing and jars of gravy are on clearance. She automatically thinks that she hopes someone is going to re-set the endcaps tonight, then shakes her head.

She piles all the beverages in a basket, stubbornly refusing to use a cart (a habit she picked up at the grocery store near her work, which is still restocking when she goes in early in the morning, and maneuvering a cart around the boxes in the aisles is just a hassle). It’s heavy, of course, and she’s relieved when she sees an open register without a line. She smirks a little at the clearly bored and annoyed clerk who is barely older than she is, and as she moves down to the lane to plunk down the cloth bags Mrs. Pierce gave her, she sees her.

“Becky!” she exclaims, surprised.

Becky glances up from where she’s stretching, on her toes, to reach one of Santana’s cloth bags. She glares a little, “Sandbags,” she growls, snatching the bags and beginning to shove the beverages in.

Santana watches, oddly transfixed, as Becky bags her groceries, until the clerk’s bored voice telling her the total snaps her back to the credit card terminal and she swipes Mrs. Pierce’s card. The cashier scowls and hands her the receipt, grumbling for her to “have a nice holiday,” before fishing her cell phone out of her pocket and tapping away at it, as there’s no one in line behind Santana. Santana goes to start loading up her arms with bags, and sees Becky is still scowling.

“So? You gonna make fun of me for being a grocery bagger?” Becky asks aggressively, “You gonna brag about how you’re living large in New York while I’m here?”

“What? No, actually I—” Santana starts back, just as aggressively, when she’s cut off.

“Listen up, Sandbags, I’m happy here, so just let it be. I live in a house for adults with developmental disabilities, I have my own room and I cook two nights a week, and I am Monopoly champ in my house on game nights. I have a job. I’m taking classes at Lima Community College on exercise science so I can be a coach someday. I am in charge of my life, and my parents and Coach Sylvester are proud of me, okay?”

Santana gapes a little, her aggression fading fast, “That’s great, Becky, really. I’m really not gonna make fun of you, I mean, you’ve got a good gig going. And…I’ll tell you a secret.” Becky looks skeptical, but nods, and Santana sighs, swallows her pride, and tells her old rival, “I work at a store a lot like this, stocking produce shelves overnight.” She doesn’t admit exactly which store, or the full extent of her job, just choosing produce because it seems like kind of a specialty position in some stores and she hopes it will sound more impressive—she didn’t swallow _all_ of her pride.

Becky’s eyes narrow and she smirks, “You went all the way to New York to do not much more than me?”

It stings, briefly, but Santana throws her a peace offering, “I’m also Super Smash Brothers champ at my house,” which is true, at least when Quinn isn’t there, but again, Becky doesn’t need to hear about how Fabray can kick her ass at something _else_ , too.

Becky’s smirk becomes slightly more like a smile and she just says, “Good game, Lopez,” and sticks her fist out for a bump, which Santana gives her.

She’s halfway home when the tears start prickling her eyes, and _what the fuck_. She was just _not ready_ to find out that Becky Jackson’s life is more fulfilling than hers right now. Which, she’s glad for her, she really is, but her words keep echoing in Santana’s mind, along with the words _what the fuck am I doing with my life?_

She has to sit in the Pierce’s driveway for five minutes, calming herself, before she can go back inside.

 

_You’re already home where you feel loved_

 

Rachel thinks she might be more excited for this Thanksgiving than for any other.

The anticipation is thick in the air immediately when she and her fathers get up early, even though this isn’t unusual for them, and it’s still morning when they begin to prep the food for the evening. They’re cooking both a turkey and a tofurkey, which, well, it’s one of the things Leroy picked up from his mother cooking-wise. Her dads are adequate cooks, but busy, hence their dedication to takeout; today, however, they cook.

She’s responsible for the vegan stuffing, which is basically from a bag and a cinch, and the pumpkin pie, which she’s using a sadly non-vegan pre-formed crust and a can of filling for, so yeah, she’ll be fine. She hovers around and watches in horror as Leroy pulls the innards out of the turkey, with a theatrical maniacal laugh, while Hiram, hours in advance of when they’ll actually get cooked, rinses asparagus and stabs some sweet potatoes with a fork in such an eerily calm way that is clashes harshly in juxtaposition to Leroy’s macabre task.

Unable to watch for long, Rachel begins to flounce upstairs, telling her father to please inform her when the barbarism in the kitchen is completed. Hiram, with a smile in his voice, suggests that perhaps while she’s out of the kitchen she can make sure the house is clean. She sighs heavily halfway up the stairs, but obeys, touching up their, as usual, very presentable house with the vacuum and dust cloths, listening as her fathers playfully bicker over how to time the cooking of both a turkey and a tofurkey.

By 5:30, everything is pretty well ready to go, with the turkey cooking and the tofurkey keeping warm on top of the oven, the pie cooling on a rack, the sweet potatoes waiting on a baking sheet, the asparagus next to a pot ready to be cooked for two minutes and then blanched, a bowl of lemon drizzle to the side, and the doorbell rings. Rachel smoothes her rather festive, she thinks, dark yellow skirt and moves quickly to answer the door.

She opens it, smile in place, to reveal Quinn in a pale pink dress and her mother, dressed mostly in yellow. “Hello, Mrs. Fabray, hello, Quinn. Please, you are welcome inside,” Rachel tells them, ushering them to the kitchen so they can put down the dishes they’re carrying. Quinn is carrying a covered pie, which she explains is her mother’s special pecan pie recipe, and a basket of homemade rolls, which she says she made in their bread machine. Her mother is carrying a ceramic dish full of herbed mashed potatoes.

Hiram and Leroy intercept both women to take the dishes from them and begin to arrange them on the available kitchen counter space, which is rapidly filling. Quinn turns to give Rachel a quick hug, and, to Rachel’s surprise, Mrs. Fabray offers one next, and she accepts with an expression of obvious surprise. Judy smiles as she releases her, and then turns to her fathers.

“Hello, Mr. Berry and Mr. Berry,” out of her line of sight, Quinn facepalms gently, and Rachel hears a slight difference in the inflection of the two “misters” as if she thinks she’s differentiating them. Quinn glances at her sheepishly as her mother continues, “I’m Judy Fabray, and it’s such an pleasure to meet you. Your daughter has been a great friend to my Quinnie.”

Quinn rolls her eyes, but Hiram and Leroy seem charmed and offer handshakes and assurances that she may use their first names. Quinn pulls Rachel away to the living room to leave their parents to talk, which Rachel had kind of been interested to hear, because it sounds like maybe they’re talking about the music that’s drifting gently through the kitchen, but as they sit on the couch together, Quinn hisses, “I’m so sorry she’s _so weird_. On the way here she asked how she could make sure she didn’t offend them, and I just told her to treat them like anybody else.”

“She did fine,” Rachel smiles, really not seeing the problem—everyone tends to call her dads that at first. “She’s trying, and I think they appreciate it.”

It’s not long after that that the doorbell rings again, and Rachel answers it to see Mrs. Puckerman and Sarah. She lets them in and attempts to take what Sarah’s carrying out of her hands for her, but the adolescent scowls a little and refuses to let her.

They deposit the food—apple pie, green bean casserole and homemade cranberry sauce—in the kitchen, where Mrs. Puckerman hugs Hiram and shakes hands with Leroy, who she knows a little less well, and then she and Mrs. Fabray touch cheeks and kiss the air next to them in one of those weird, middle-aged women greetings that has Quinn raising an eyebrow. Mrs. Puckerman gives Rachel and Quinn both hugs, and then nudges Sarah until she rolls her eyes a little and greets everyone flippantly. Quinn and Rachel stifle giggles while Mrs. Puckerman just rolls her eyes right back at her daughter.

This time, everyone heads for the living room to take a seat, and Quinn and Rachel end up sitting together on the piano bench, giving the adults the slightly nicer seats while they talk, and Rachel’s dads alternate getting up to check on the food, switching things in and out of the oven so they stay warm. Judy and Hiram are still discussing the classical music and opera that was chosen for the ambiance of the evening—Quinn admits she had no idea her mother likes classical music—and Leroy seems to be subtly fishing for a way to invite Mrs. Puckerman to join them for the last day of Hanukkah, just as Rachel had asked him to. He catches Rachel’s eye and winks at one point when it seems that the idea may have been successfully planted. Even if Rachel won’t be home for Hanukkah, she wants Puck to have a good holiday. Quinn’s mostly focused on her mother with a wary expression, at least when not talking to Rachel, when she gladly gives Rachel her full attention. Though, feeling Quinn’s anxiety, Rachel mostly sits back and listens to the adults and lets Quinn stare at her mother in apprehension. When the doorbell next rings, Rachel and Quinn grin at each other.

Rachel and Quinn answer the door together to take in a grinning Brittany and an exhausted-looking Santana. Brittany wraps them up in hugs while Santana groans, “Berry, I’ll tell you right now, I don’t think we’ll be eating much. Christ, I underestimated Pierce family Thanksgiving.”

“We’re pretty hardcore at it,” Brittany says seriously, smiling as Santana and Quinn embrace and then the two girls are ushered into the house.

“She’s not kidding,” Santana agrees emphatically, “I think even Rory was scared and this was his second Thanksgiving with them.”

“To be fair, isn’t he afraid of you?” Rachel asks with a wicked smile, which makes Santana roll her eyes and smirk right back.

Santana accepts hugs from the parents present, seeming to hesitate before each one, but especially Mrs. Puckerman—Rachel can’t imagine their relationship was ever spectacular, as Santana spent most of her time with Puck during perhaps the bitchiest period of her life. And then while Rachel makes sure Brittany is acquainted with everyone, since Brittany herself isn’t sure, Santana settles next to Quinn on the floor by the piano, pointing and firing an imaginary gun at Sarah in greeting as she does so, who ignores her and goes back to texting furiously on her phone, looking bored. Quinn nudges her, “How’d it go really?”

Santana shoots her a dark look that makes Quinn regret asking for a split second until Santana sighs, “It was fine, actually. Britt’s aunt and uncle are really nice and her little cousins are cute. Rory got a little mixed up about what the rituals are for this ‘invented American holiday’ and ended up making a wish instead of reflecting on the past, but whatever, it kinda worked.” She shrugs, “I mean, you know I love Britt’s family, and we ate so much that, it was, you know, Thanksgiving.” She smiles and it appears genuine, and Quinn slips an arm around her shoulders to give her a squeeze.

They exchange some small talk with the adults; now that there are more young people around, they seem to remember that they might have interest in their lives. The different age groups frequently get distracted and talk among themselves, and a frequent topic of conversation among the younger people present is Mr. Schue’s wedding tomorrow, which none of them can quite believe is almost upon them. Santana, rubbing listlessly at her full belly, maintains that it’s going to be a complete disaster, while Rachel insists that with the amount of sheer talent New Directions alums and new members will be bringing to the table that they’ll be fine, and she’ll strive to make sure it’s perfect.

“Why are you worried about this?” Quinn asks Rachel, “I thought you didn’t like Mr. Schue that much. I mean, you spent years arguing with him.”

“I think she just wants Ms. Pillsbury to have a nice wedding so she can get over feeling guilty for her crush on Mr. Schue way back when,” Santana drawls, sounding bored.

“Santana!” Rachel hisses, glancing at her, thankfully distracted, fathers.

“What? It was so obvious. Thank god it was short-lived.”

A huff from Rachel, who elects to ignore Santana, “I love Mr. Schue, Quinn!” she preemptively jabs Santana with her elbow, making the other girl expel a much more forceful snort. “One mustn’t always agree with someone to love them,” she explains with a little smile. Quinn chews her lip for a moment, but then drops her eyes, and Brittany asks them whether they think Kurt is a bridesmaid or a groomsman, which steers the conversation in a somehow weirder direction.

It doesn’t seem like long until Puck shows up, ringing the doorbell before simply walking in anyway, bringing with him the stench of sweat and fryer oil and the vague lingering odor of cigarettes, and announcing, “The celebration can now begin!”

“Noah!” his mother scolds sharply, “Do _not_ just walk into other people’s houses like that!”

Rachel bounds up, surprised by just how happy she is to see him and announces her intended big hug as she crosses the room. He grins at his mother over her head, “I dunno, the hosts don’t seem to mind,” he grins, “Hey, babe,” he greets Rachel.

 “You’re such a dumbass,” Sarah mutters at him, somehow carrying over Rachel telling Puck how much she missed him. Possibly because it’s the first thing she’s said in almost a half an hour.

Puck just winks at her, and his mother grunts, “Don’t start, Sarah.”

Quinn’s next to get a hug, and they squeeze tight, shaking back and forth a little bit in their firm embrace. “Hey, moron,” she greets against his shoulder.

“Good to see you, Q-ster,” he says, his voice mostly serious now.

Santana reaches up to swat at his non-existent hair as Quinn pulls away, “You look so stupid without the mohawk, but then, I guess you looked pretty stupid with it, too. And Jesus, you reek.”

He snatches her in a hug, “I missed you, you bitch.”

“Noah!” his mother growls again.

“No harm done, Mrs. P,” Santana assures, swatting at Puck’s head again, “I kind of am one.”

“No, you’re not,” Rachel argues, sounding slightly appalled. Santana just shrugs and doesn’t look at her.

Brittany approaches and regards Puck for a moment, “I forgot you were in town, but I might not have recognized you without your hair. Where have you been?”

Puck smiles at her and she gets a hug, too, “Around, I guess. I heard you guys rocked at Sectionals. Wish I could’ve been there to see.”

“You should come to Regionals,” Brittany offers, and Puck smiles and nods, his expression wistful.

He’s then shaking hands with Hiram and Leroy, and Judy Fabray gives him a smile that doesn’t look _too_ forced and gives him a hug. And after a moment, Leroy rubs his hands together and announces, “Ladies and gentlemen…dinner!”

They’ve propped up the leaves on either side of their old dining room table, so there’s actually enough room for everyone to sit. There is barely room for their place settings with all the platters of food in the center of the table. There is a wineglass in front of each plate, though Rachel knows none contain wine; possibly because of all the underage dinner guests, they had provided sparkling grape juice instead. Her fathers usually drank wine with fancy dinners, so it does seem a bit unusual to Rachel, but she supposes it’s inclusive, which is basically the point of the holiday and the gathering.

Rachel’s fathers sit together on one end, and Mrs. Fabray and Mrs. Puckerman sit together on the other. Rachel ends up choosing the seat next to Sarah, who sits next to her mother as far from Puck as she can; Puck is next to Hiram. Quinn, who she thought might sit next to her own mother, takes a seat on her other side, next to Leroy, and Santana sits across from Rachel, with Brittany settling next to Mrs. Fabray.

His kind eyes drifting down the table, Leroy asks, “Would anyone like to say grace before we eat?”

There’s a brief silence, and then Judy says, “I think we’ll be spending most of the meal discussing all our blessings. I think we can all be satisfied with that.” Quinn glances at her mother in surprise, and Leroy smiles indulgently.

“Very well, then. I’ll be glad to carve the turkey.” Leroy cuts the string holding the turkey’s legs in place, “Now’s your chance,” he tells it with a sarcastic smile. Rachel gasps in horror, while most other people chuckle.

Everyone begins passing around dishes to serve themselves and passing their plates up to Leroy for turkey or tofurkey, and Quinn leans over to assure Rachel that the rolls are vegan and that she convinced her mother not to add real cream to the mashed potatoes. Mrs. Puckerman, overhearing, tells Rachel with some regret that the green bean casserole is not vegan (and then berates Puck for not informing her that she should prepare something with that in mind), and Rachel assures her that it’s quite alright. To Rachel’s surprise, Quinn and Brittany both select tofurkey over the turkey (Rachel’s dads and Judy take both). Quinn just shrugs when Rachel asks why, and Brittany tells her she feels bad eating a duck’s cousin.

Conversation is sparse at first, as everyone savors the food. Then, “This is delicious, Judy,” Leroy tells her, pointing to his mashed potatoes with his fork, “What do you use?”

Judy smiles slyly, and says, “Well, I’m sure you taste the rosemary, but I’m afraid the rest is a bit of a secret.” Leroy grins conspiratorially in response.

“I’ll get it out of you someday,” he promises her.

Quinn, meanwhile, moans slightly at her mouthful of cranberry sauce. “This is the best cranberry sauce I’ve ever eaten,” she informs Mrs. Puckerman, who is uncharacteristically bashful as she ducks her head and thanks her. Puck, meanwhile, is digging into his drumstick—Santana holds its twin in her hands—and is complimenting Leroy on how tender and juicy it is, which has started Leroy on an explanation of the brine bath he’d given the turkey, and how the salt helps to keep in the moisture.

“Daddy,” Rachel whines slightly, trying not to think about how gross salt-soaked bird flesh is.

“Sorry, baby-girl,” he apologizes with a little smile.

And after a few minutes of small talk and compliments on the food, Hiram finally says, “So what is everyone thankful for this year?”

Surprisingly, Brittany is the first to respond, “Santana, birds, the best super-Senior year ever, and the fact that Lord Tubbington stopped going to raves.”

Puck coughs slightly to cover a laugh, and then winces; from the way Santana’s body twitched, Rachel’s pretty sure she stomped on his foot. The adults seem dumbfounded for a moment, but then just smile at her.

Mrs. Puckerman quickly says, “That my kids are growing up into wonderful young adults,” which, in context, _feels_ like it could be a subtle jab, but she sounds sincere; still, makes Sarah roll her eyes, but there’s the hint of a grin on Puck’s face.

“That I’m almost out of middle school,” Sarah deadpans tonelessly, going back to staring at her plate immediately.

“My husband-at-heart, and the fact that my daughter is out there chasing her dreams,” says Leroy, giving Rachel a warm smile and a wink.

“My husband-at-heart, my baby-girl, and all present company,” Hiram says, diplomatically but sincerely.

Quinn barely clears her throat, and says, “My health, my education, my friends, and…loved ones that…can’t be here,” and from the way she and Puck lock eyes, Rachel knows she doesn’t mean her father or her sister, who she’s not entirely sure deserve to be considered Quinn’s loved ones anyway.

“Everybody good in my life, which includes all of you, and Beth,” Puck says, re-locking his eyes with Quinn’s. Rachel hears her swallow, and out of the corner of her eye sees Mrs. Fabray place a hand over Mrs. Puckerman’s.

“My daughter, and her remarkable perseverance,” Judy says quietly, exchanging a tremulous smile with Quinn.

“The chance to make my dreams come true, and the friends that I will have for the rest of my life,” Rachel says with a smile, gazing at everyone around her, all of whom smile back.

And it hits her, in that moment, that a year ago, she would have imagined the three most important people in her life—Finn, Kurt and Mercedes—with her today, and none of them are. And…it’s not their _fault_ ; she’s no longer with Finn, and he and Kurt need all the family time they can get, and so does Mercedes, who usually does a big Jones clan thing with family in Columbus, and…

And even when, that day Mr. Schue took them to the auditorium to tell them there was always something to live for, she’d told the Glee club she’d been looking forward to their friendships for the rest of her life, even meeting eyes with _Quinn_ , of all people, and sharing a smile, she never could have imagined the way she and Quinn had fit into each other’s lives so seamlessly, that it seems so _right_ to have her by her side for their decidedly very family holiday.

 _This_ is her family, she knows now. They may have said it many times over in high school, that the New Directions were family, but she’s never _felt_ it quite so deeply as she has now, because she’s never been as _close_ to anyone as she is with these _friends_. Santana is her surprisingly protective and respectful sister; Brittany, Santana’s obvious soulmate who fits so perfectly with her ability to sooth Santana’s fiery temperament and Rachel’s own agitated nature. Even Noah, with his big heart hiding under the smirks and muscles, is practically her brother, though she loves him from afar these days. And Quinn…her best friend, _my heart’s twin_ …she thinks a little foolishly, dazedly.

Rachel struggles to control the tears in her eyes as she realizes that even though she will always love Finn, Kurt and Mercedes _to pieces_ , she’s looking at the very best people in her life, but can’t contain them when Santana’s speaks.

“Brittany, and my family, specifically the…family of my choosing,” Santana says quietly, and the way she looks at Rachel, she _knows_ that Santana has realized exactly what she has, that she had never _dreamed_ her family would include Rachel. The naked, open vulnerability in the other girl’s eyes, Rachel knows she’s projecting the same thing right back, and _God_ she loves everyone at this table, so much…

She feels Quinn touch her hand gently and sinks automatically into her arms, which is awkward, with the table digging into her ribcage, but Quinn rests her cheek against her head and somehow, Rachel has never felt so close to her until this moment. After a moment, Rachel forces herself to sit back up, wiping away her tears and saying roughly, “I just love you guys,” squeezing the hand that Quinn still holds.

Santana’s chin is trembling, and Quinn’s hand, though holding hers firmly, is shaking a little, but luckily Puck, feigning obliviousness, just retorts, “Back atcha, babe,” his mouth full of sweet potato, and cuts through the heavy atmosphere like a chainsaw.

God bless Noah Puckerman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Red Hot Chili Peppers, “Snow (Hey Oh),” Prefuse 73, “The Class of 73 Bells,” Beirut, “Scenic World,” and The Head and the Heart, “Lost in My Mind.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Helen: Santana's sarcastic gay coworker friend, buys her coffees sometimes, gave her champagne for her birthday, Santana feels weird about their friendship occasionally  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, enjoys video games  
> Steve: Stephanie's boyfriend, also a Yale student  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, possibly attracted to Quinn  
> Lulu: In Quinn's circle of Yale friends, townie, interested in studying art  
> Georgie: Introduced this chapter  
> Billy: Introduced this chapter  
> Malcolm: Introduced this chapter


	16. As long as I don't break these promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This update concludes with discussions of a sexual nature regarding Tike, Brittana, Samcedes and Klaine.

_As long as I don’t break these promises_

 

Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury’s wedding is…kind of charming.

Probably because it has that rushed, last-minute feel to it, which is fucking stupid because, _Jesus_ , they’ve been engaged for like almost a year at this point. But seriously, they’re getting married in the orchestra pit of the auditorium, not even on stage…it’s the weirdest fucking thing.

The Glee members and alums arrive early(some still seem to be partially in food comas) and get dressed in the yellow dresses and navy blue tuxedos chosen for them. Kurt seems affronted by the fact that he’s a groomsman—he’d been certain there was going to be a yellow tuxedo for him and that he’d be with the girls—but he scowls and follows Blaine into the men’s dressing room (the locker room. Seriously). Santana breaths a sigh of relief to find that her dress, based on her fitting for Nationals, fits with only a little tightness around her middle. Is she getting love handles? Damn. It’s too dark to go running when she’s awake, and she tried Rachel’s elliptical, but she _hates_ exercising indoors. Like, what is she supposed to do, stare at the walls?

Then, they kind of wait around. Ms. Pillsbury is elsewhere; Santana hopes she has actual adult family and friends helping her prepare. There are some of the newbies here—the female ones, anyway, since they really haven’t seen the guys at all, as they’re locked away in their own dressing room. And while Brittany talks to them and introduces them to Santana—the little redheaded girl almost hyperventilates when Santana waves at her, which makes her smirk, she still has game—most of the other alums are staring around at nothing unfocusedly. Well, Santana will admit that she’s staring at Unique, because shit, she’s _impressed_ by how beautiful Wade becomes after like an hour of work. Like some kind of butterfly transformation or something, though calling Wade a caterpillar isn’t exactly fair or accurate. Rachel is standing off by herself, singing “Somebody to Love” very quietly as practice. Quinn stands nearby, talking to Mercedes, gesturing to Rachel and rolling her eyes, but with a fond smile.

It’s weird, though, because she’d approached Quinn as they arrived and informed her quietly about Rachel not wanting to see Finn, and how she and Kurt were going to try to enlist a few people (okay, like half the former Glee club) to make sure to keep Rachel and Finn otherwise occupied so they won’t have to interact during the wedding. Quinn had looked baffled, and though she’d hid it quickly…Santana doesn’t understand how it is she doesn’t know what’s going on. Doesn’t Rachel tell her best friend things?

After some silence, Sugar pipes up, “Does anyone else think it’s really weird that we’re Mr. Schue’s wedding party?”

And pretty much everyone choruses, “Nope,” in response. Sugar just nods, smirking.

Eventually Coach Beiste enters, looking deeply uncomfortable in her own yellow dress. She’s the Maid of Honor, and, yeah, Santana had been relieved to find out there was at least _one_ adult involved in this process.

“Okay, girls, we’re gonna process in, in this order, and we’ll be singing ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ line by line as we do it, so it’ll be quick, just meet up with the boy you’re paired with and sing like your throat’s got a bone to crack, get me?” She then proceeds to line everyone up in the order specified by the piece of paper she’s pulled out of her bra. There are an odd number of people in the wedding party, so it had been decided that Unique will process in by herself at the end, followed immediately by Sue Sylvester, who is officiating the ceremony (which, is that a nice way to have a friend involved, or just cheap as hell?). Sue will be close enough to her that it would look like Unique isn’t alone, that she was leading Sue in, but they won’t link arms and sing together like the other couples, thereby asserting Unique’s femininity. Santana rolls her eyes a little. Would it kill Schuester to ask another guy—like maybe an _adult_ male—to be in the wedding so that Unique’s unique (no pun intended) position on the gender front (again, no pun intended) isn’t put on such display?

The procession in actually goes okay. It’s similar enough to Burt and Carole’s wedding that the Glee kids don’t really bat an eye. Santana finds herself paired with Kurt, which makes her want to laugh—and after they sing their line, he hisses “Schue bearded us” in her ear. She does glare at Rory, who is lucky enough to be paired with Brittany. By the time Unique and Sue start down the aisle, with Unique singing her line by herself, everyone else is pretty much in place and ready to start singing the rest of the song together. Santana’s surprised she remembers the harmony so well, and judging from the sound around it, it seems like everyone else does, too.

They stand off to the side after finishing the song, and there’s a pause as they wait. The instrumentals from “Don’t Stop Believing” are still playing, more subdued, in the background as everyone waits for the bride and groom to come in. Santana takes the moment to scan those in attendance, which is actually not a lot of people. A genial-looking couple that she concludes are Mr. Schue’s parents; a stiff-backed, tight-lipped pair of redheads she knows instantly are Ms. Pillsbury’s parents, a smattering of other strange faces in the first few rows reserved for family. Holly Holiday, smirking at her a few rows back; Ken Tanaka, appearing to have ballooned up about fifty pounds and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else; April Rhodes, covered in faux fur and rhinestones, wearing sunglasses as if afraid to be recognized; Bryan Ryan, his expression haughty and challenging even at rest. Then, _damn_ , the former Mrs. Schuester, sort of near the front, cradling a baby whose slightly flat face and tilted eyes betray her Down syndrome.

And Santana remembers Brittany telling her about the daycare center the high school had opened up, inside the school, for faculty, staff and even students—Quinn obviously wasn’t the only girl to get knocked up at their school, and some of those girls had decided to keep their kids. But apparently, it is run by Terri Del Monico—who, until very recently, was still using Schuester. Which…it’s actually sort of heartbreaking, Santana thinks, to see the woman who wanted a child more than anything, relegated to taking care of other people’s kids, watching as her ex-husband starts to build a life with a new woman in the very building in which she works…

Santana’s not sure if she’s a guest or an employee at this point, because that’s definitely Coach Sylvester’s baby the woman is holding, but if she were just there to take care of the kid, why would she watch? She must be a guest, and Santana really doesn’t know if it was horrible of Mr. Schue to invite his ex-wife, or polite. And whether she’s taking care of the Sylvester spawn by her own request or by someone else’s.

In the moments before Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury appear, Sugar hisses at the girls, “Is it just me, or has Mr. Schue made out with like every non-related woman in this room?”

Everyone kind of stares at her, and a smug expression gradually crosses her face. “What makes you say that?” Merry asks, sounding alarmed.

“Most of it’s common knowledge,” Sugar whispers back, loud enough for the rest of the girls to hear, “Some I found out through my father’s connections. Private investigators, you know.”

Santana wants to just ask _what the fuck_ at Sugar’s idea of a hobby, but then, they see Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury coming into the room, and everyone is standing to watch them approach and, as instructed, the Glee kids plus Coach Beiste and Coach Sylvester sing the chorus to “Don’t Stop Believing” as they approach.

And damn, but Ms. Pillsbury is a mess. She’s sweaty, shaky, eyes bugged. But she’s wearing what appears to be a genuine, exuberant smile. Still, she feels Quinn jolt slightly next to her at the sight, and they glance at each other, communicating their agreement—she’s either mid panic attack or, more likely due to her smile, coming down from one. Mr. Schue looks sweet and concerned as they traverse down the aisle.

The ceremony is pretty standard. A few religious overtones that Sue Sylvester manages to grit out without rolling her eyes and, well, Santana’s relationship with religion is complicated at best, but at least it’s not like the long-ass Catholic weddings she’s been to when cousins have gotten married. Sue also manages to avoid mocking the bride and groom, which is surprising, and Santana thinks motherhood may have actually softened her, or maybe she and Mr. Schue actually did come to an understanding at some point. And, the longer it goes on, the calmer Ms. Pillsbury actually looks, which is somewhat of a relief, and when it’s finally over, and they sing “Somebody to Love” as they follow Mr. Schue and the new Mrs. Schue out of the auditorium to the gym, where the reception will take place. Rachel stays glued to Blaine’s side, while Finn shoots her glances over his shoulder as he walks out with Beiste. Santana glares, sees Kurt stiffen in her peripheral vision, and at one point hears Quinn stumble behind her, and knows Quinn sees it, too.

And then there’s the reception, and Quinn and Santana flank Rachel at the table(which thankfully is only labeled as “wedding party” and doesn’t have specified seating), and Kurt sits across from her, with Blaine on one side and Mercedes on the other, and they effectively block out Finn, who looks put out as he settles next to Puck and Sam at the other end of the table. Sam gives Kurt a discrete nod at this, glancing somewhat forlornly at Mercedes as he does so, and Puck hitches his chin slightly at Quinn, who smiles in return. Rachel side-eyes the boys at the other end of the table and looks relieved to see Finn sulking in his seat, and her smile returns in full as they chat. Puck talks enthusiastically with Beiste, who sits across from them, and continually nudges Finn in the ribs to try to draw him into the conversation, but he remains withdrawn.

Sugar gains their attention, mostly because Kurt and Mercedes, as well as Tina, are focused on her gossip. Apparently, she tells them, the Pillsbury parents don’t approve of the marriage, which is why their families weren’t actually involved in the ceremony—they couldn’t very well have the Schuesters show their support if the Pillsburys wouldn’t. And, Sugar shares off-handedly, there was another name on the guest list that Mr. Schue had also made out with—Shelby Corcoran (Santana notes Quinn’s shaking hand pick up her water glass two seats over from her, and sees Rachel’s head turn away). Apparently, Shelby is in the process of moving out of Lima (probably to New York, but Sugar’s sources aren’t definite), and couldn’t spare the time to attend. Santana doesn’t know whether she’s more surprised about the fact that Mr. Schue apparently made out with _Rachel’s mother_ (though, really, was that any worse than Puck?) or that Sugar, and probably also Mr. Schue, seems to know so much more about her than either Quinn or Rachel do at this point in time. It’s kind of sickening, but when Sugar starts on the gossip of the plethora of pills that Terri Del Monico has been taking, everyone seems to let the mention of Shelby pass.

And, eventually, it’s fun. There’s food, and dancing, and they make sure someone is always dancing with Rachel, and it’s actually getting kind of ridiculous, the lengths they’re going through to make sure, what, Finn doesn’t like propose to her again and Rachel finds herself unable to resist accepting? Rachel is pointedly ignoring him, and his expression is getting stormier and stormier, but not toward her, toward Quinn and Santana and even Puck and Kurt, who are always surrounding his little ex-fiance. Brittany and Mike dance together a lot, clearly happy to see each other, and attempt to draw Finn into dancing with them as a distraction, which kind of works.

At one point, Sue Sylvester approaches, carrying her baby in her arms. Brittany points and says to Santana, “You should totally go see the baby, she’s so cute.” Most of the alums surround Sue, those still in high school having already seen the baby, but Sue’s attention is pretty clearly focused on Santana and Quinn.

Santana stares at the kid, who has bright blue eyes and the kind of open-mouthed awed expression that babies too young to really smile wear. She can see those eyes rocket all around the environment as she leans over to get a better look her and the child kind of mews at her.

“Want to hold her?” Sue asks.

Santana balks a little in anxiety. She’s held babies before, but she’s never been able to shake the fear that she’ll manage to kill them. They’re so _fragile_.

“Um. Sure.”

Sue places the baby in her arms and Santana struggles to make sure she’s supporting the tiny infant’s neck while Sue watches them, appearing unconcerned. Mike leans over her shoulder and offers the baby his pinky; she grasps it. Santana smiles down at her and then looks at Sue. “She really is beautiful,” she offers.

Sue nods and smirks, “That was a given. Sylvester blood is potent. Of course, I hope more for her to be powerful. I almost named her Conquest, because that is my hope for her.”

Santana swallows a laugh, and Sue regards her with the barest trace of warmth in her expression for a moment before saying, “It’s my hope for you, too. I’m sure you’re starting with Greenwich Village, but soon I know you’ll conquer much more.”

Santana tries to smile, but shit, she never quite realized that Sue Sylvester had high hopes for her. Not that she’s entirely sure what kind of conquest Sue is implying she’ll have, but still. Quinn was always her _real_ protégé, and Becky, but that little bit of affection Sue is throwing her way is surprising and almost painful.

Quinn is standing next to her, staring intently at the baby she’s holding. Sue notices her, and smiles somewhat softly, then tells Santana, “Hand Janie to Fabray, will you?”

Quinn’s breath seems to catch, and Santana’s does, too, because the baby’s name is _so close_ to that of Sue’s sister. She gently manages to give the baby to Quinn, whose eyes are instantly teary. She looks at Santana, then Sue, then Janie, and smiles a little as the baby’s gaze seems to focus on her in an intense stare. Rachel, who had been mostly hanging back because Sue probably still intimidates her, approaches then to lean against Quinn’s shoulder and look down at Janie. Quinn smiles graciously at her and tips the baby toward her a little more, and it’s weirdly heartwarming to watch them smile down at a baby together.

After a few moments, Quinn takes a breath and hands Janie back to Sue, who smiles at her. “Are you keeping your head, Fabray?” she asks. Quinn nods. “Reading traffic signs?” Quinn gapes, coughs, and nods. “Good.” Sue reaches one arm over to pull a clearly surprised Quinn in for a one-armed hug, “Then I know I don’t have to worry about you.”

About forty-five minutes or so into the reception, Finn is standing up to do his speech. Sugar says, a little bit too loudly, “Does anyone else think it’s creepy that Mr. Schue chose a student to be his best man?” which makes _multiple_ people at the table stifle laughter into their hands. And it’s…well, it’s what Santana expected, all about how Mr. Schue is the father he never had (she hears Kurt inhale a bit sharply at that, and yeah, _ouch_ ), how he taught him to be a man. And by the way Quinn’s hand is tightening around her water glass, she’s feeling something of the same—not that Finn is definitely slighting Kurt’s dad, but vaguely like there’s something sexist about what Finn is saying, though she can’t pinpoint what. Quinn probably can. She’s always been smarter, Santana thinks dully.

Never once does Finn mention Ms. Pillsbury-now-Mrs. Schuester, which, well, certainly they weren’t close, but shouldn’t he at least be acknowledging that she’s good for Mr. Schue or something? Santana claps a few times politely at the end of the speech, as does everyone around her except Quinn, who is just tracing the edge of her water glass, her features hard.

Coach Beiste’s speech is a little better, and focuses more on the couple—about how Emma’s practicality seems to ground Will, and Will’s patience seems to calm her, and it’s honestly the best argument Santana’s heard for why these two should be getting married, because honestly, she mostly just thought the whole thing was weird for the longest time. Firstly, that the love lives of teachers were even something they, as students, were _aware_ of, but also because Mr. Schue was apparently obsessed with Glee club to the point that it wrecked his first marriage, even when he was terrible at running it. And anyone could see Ms. Pillsbury was mentally ill in a way that pretty much made intimacy impossible, how was that something they could work through?

Then again, she and Brittany are weathering distance, flunking a year of high school, and the worst job ever, so, maybe in some ways love does conquer all.

After Beiste sits down, Sue stands up, and judging by Mr. and Mrs. Schue’s faces, this is a surprise speech.

“I can’t remember a thing Mr. Hudson said at this point, but I must say that I agree with everything Shannon Beiste said. William, Elma, we have not always gotten along, but I must publicly announce my support for this union. Now, many people have an issue with unconventional unions, but not me. Whether it’s a curly and a ginger, a meerkat and a songbird, I believe love is love. A toast.” She raises her glass and the sea of baffled and amused faces raise their own in response. “May your love last.”

After the speeches, which stop there without input from either Schuester or Pillsbury parents—because, really, what more can be said?—they’re back to dancing and eating again, and Brittany feels _so good_ in her arms, and…

Puck approaches Rachel, who is dancing with Mercedes and Quinn, and attempts to shove his hands in his pockets, only to find, bewildered, that the tuxedo’s pockets are sewn shut. He smoothes his hands up and down his hips instead, and Kurt sidles up next to him. Rachel stops dancing to look at the two, and her smile dies on her face.

“I really think you should talk to him,” Puck says quietly, “Like, I think you need to tell him what you told us. He doesn’t understand what’s going on. You know us guys aren’t good at subtlety.”

“I beg to differ, I excel at subtlety,” Kurt sniffs.

“Not the point,” Puck counters, but he gives Kurt a little smile anyway, “But he just needs to know for sure, Rach. Cut him loose.”

“I hate to say it, but I agree with our resident meathead,” Kurt sighs, shooting Puck a humorless smirk, “I know you didn’t want to talk to him, but I think you need to speak your piece. And Rachel? You’re the most persuasive person I know. So, don’t let him talk you into anything you don’t want.”

Rachel chews her lip and then, as if it’s really _her_ decision, looks at Quinn, who is chewing her own. Quinn meets her eye and shrugs, “It’s up to you, Rachel. It might be more fair to him if you let him know what you’re thinking.” It’s almost like Quinn is gritting out this advice, with the way her jaw is tight and barely moving, and as soon as Rachel turns back to Puck and Kurt, Quinn’s head tips down and she squeezes her eyes shut.

Rachel takes a breath and says quietly, “Alright. I’ll talk to him.”

Puck nods. “He’s only got about an hour or so before he needs to leave for the airport, so he’s in the parking lot, waiting for his mom to come get him.”

Rachel nods and tosses her hair rather dramatically over her shoulder before striding out of the room, brimming with forced confidence.

 

_He holds me in his big arms_

 

And as it has so many times before, her breath catches when her eyes land on the tall figure standing alone in the parking lot. His profile is strong, and the short, military haircut doesn’t suit him all that well—it makes him look almost like a stranger—but it does accentuate the way the lines of his face seem more mature, the muscles of his jaw more defined. The tuxedo, based on his measurements for Nationals, is tight on his shoulders and chest and looser in his midsection, just proving how hard his body has been working.

His head turns, and he gives her that little half-smile that always broke her resolve, and she straightens her shoulders to avoid letting it break her _now_. “Finn,” she greets evenly.

He begins to stride toward her, “Rachel,” he breathes, “What’s wrong? Have you been avoiding me?”

Her eyes dart away, and she admits, “Yes.”

He frowns, “But why? I mean, I wanted to see you. I miss you a lot.”

“I realize,” she says, “You’ve made that quite clear.”

He tries to smile, but it falters, “You haven’t really been writing me back.”

“I’ve been busy,” she says, her voice somewhat short, and she presses her lips together resolutely. Time to be honest. “And because I haven’t wanted to. I would like for you to stop writing to me, Finn.”

Finn shakes his head slowly, and his expression is almost amused, “Rachel, I can’t do that. I love you, and I think you must still love me, and I shouldn’t have broken up with you. I want _us_ back. We don’t even have to be engaged. But I think we deserve another chance.”

“No, Finn,” she counters sharply, “We can’t do this. Not now. And if you want it to happen _ever_ , you need to stop. You’re making it very hard for me to move on, and eventually, I will just get bitter.”

Something flashes in Finn’s eyes, and Rachel winces. She just affirmed that she _does_ still have strong feelings for him, and now he knows it. She folds her arms, trying for an aggressive stance, but she feels vulnerable instead.

“I’m going to ask Santana and Kurt to throw out any letters from you,” she tries to say with conviction, but it comes out whiny, petulant.

Finn regards her more soberly for a moment, looking like he wants to say something, but then his mother’s familiar SUV is approaching them, and he just reaches into the actual functional breast pocket of his tuxedo and extracts a thumb drive—an old one, that only holds 2 gigs—and hands it to her. “Just listen to it,” he says. She stares at it, and he tips his body toward hers, and she doesn’t know his intention—Hug? Kiss?—so she jolts backwards, arms tight around herself, and he gives her an inscrutable look before turning to get into his mom’s car. “I’m going to keep writing to you, because I’m right about this. Bye, Rachel, I love you,” he tells her, softly, his mouth shaping her name like a lover’s caress.

When she gets home, after half-heartedly dancing and plastering on her starpower smile through the next hour or so the reception spans, she takes the thumb drive and slides it into her laptop. There’s only one thing on it, an MP3 titled BofB, and she clicks it, and after a moment…

It’s Finn, singing “Beast of Burden,” and…God, this is exactly the kind of song his voice was made for, and it’s rough at the right spots, and smooth and melodic at the others, and the way he punches out the staccatos from low in his belly is just…she feels, unwillingly, warm, because it’s even just the kind of love song he would choose, one that kind of misses the mark, yet is painfully, almost insensitively, true in parts, but…

It doesn’t even matter that it’s not very good quality, and it sounds as if he’s just singing along with some kind of karaoke track coming out of his crappy laptop speakers, but it's…it’s just…

She manages to get Kurt and Santana on a conference video chat on GTalk, and Kurt’s down to an undershirt and his hair is rumpled but he looks suitably concerned, and Santana is utterly mussed, and her lipstick is smeared, and she’s scowling, but beneath her brows, Rachel can see the worry in her eyes. She’d be more embarrassed about interrupting them from time with their loved ones if they hadn’t told her to call them if she needed them—and if they hadn’t left their accounts online. She just needs to see their faces.

She doesn’t even realize she is crying until she sees their reactions, and she wipes hastily at her face, “Sorry to, um, interrupt,” she starts awkwardly, perfunctorily, and Kurt smiles encouragingly while Santana just grunts. “So you know I spoke to Finn, and he told me he won’t stop writing and he gave me a recording of a song he sang.”

Kurt’s expression clears after a moment, and he says, “Ooh, that’s what he’d been working on last night.”

Rachel shakes her head a little distractedly, “It was…really good, actually, and it sort of…I just need help. I need you to ensure I never check the mail by myself, and I request that you shred any letters from Finn that you find.” Kurt raises an eyebrow, and Rachel says, “And yes, I am aware that it’s illegal to tamper with someone else’s mail, but you have my permission. And do not inform me if he’s sending letters, even if I ask.”

“You got it,” Santana says, firmly, “Are we done here? I’ve got this half-naked hot blonde in my bed right now.”

“Oh, god,” Kurt groans.

“What, like you don’t have a bottle of hair gel with caterpillar eyebrows in yours?”

Huffing a little, Kurt says, “Well, yes, but if you insist on talking about lesbian sex, I’ll lose what little libido I have left after this dour conversation.”

It’s extremely silly, but right and so entirely representative of her life in New York that Rachel is chuckling. And Kurt vows to help, same as Santana had, so she signs off, letting the two roommates she loves so dearly go be with their loved ones. And afterwards, feels slightly empty.

She calls Quinn, and doesn’t even need to tell her what happened, before she is there what feels like immediately with vegan ice cream and _500 Days of Summer_ , and very pointedly turns off her constantly buzzing phone. The movie is hard to watch, with how hard she’s crying, but it’s therapeutic. Cathartic. And somehow, it’s such a Quinn thing to do, so tough love, so straight and to the point—sometimes the dreams of our heart just don’t work out, move on, Rachel Berry.

Rachel can’t even bring herself to say much, just chokes out, “I really know it has to be over, now,” at one point during the evening. Quinn just watches her with huge, shiny eyes, her brows slightly pinched, her lips pressed flat, and it’s one of those potent expressions Rachel can’t quite interpret, but she feels achingly certain Quinn is disappointed in her, for hanging on this long.

After several long moments, Quinn just nods and reaches for her, and Rachel falls into her. “It’s the right choice,” Quinn murmurs, “It…doesn’t make it the easiest, but it’s right.” Rachel’s tears are renewed, and they really don’t discuss the matter any more.

Quinn stays the night, refusing to leave after making Rachel cry so hard. Rachel forgives her, because, really, there’s nothing to forgive, and even though they’re in the queen sized bed of Rachel’s childhood bedroom, she presses herself as close to Quinn as if they were in her twin bed, in her apartment.

 

_And I tread a troubled track_

 

She’s home.

Or, really, _he’s_ home, but, corny as it is, she fervently believes her home is his arms. Even in a train station.

One slightly awkward car ride with Mrs. Chang to the train station and there’s Mike, walking toward them on the platform, and his face splits into a grin at the sight of her—he’d only known his mother was coming to get him—and he speeds toward her. They embrace, his rolling luggage falling against his calf and his shoulder bag resting on their toes.

And after half a minute, he has the courtesy to pull away and fully hug his mother, who kisses his face, and then turn back to Tina, who finally kisses his mouth in greeting.

It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow, but they have tonight.

She almost can’t believe it has been three months since she’s seen him. Chicago isn’t far, and everything they’d said about how she could visit turned out not to come to fruition. There is the fact that Tina doesn’t have a job—understandable, as she is quite busy already—and can’t quite find a way to ask her parents to buy her a train ticket. Her parents are wonderful people, really, she loves them completely and tells them so much about her life, but, like most parents, they are always sure that they know what is best for her. And her mother is not so sure that letting Tina visit with her _college boyfriend_ for a weekend is a good idea.

They’re at Mike’s house that evening. They eat a delicious meal, and Mike, talking possibly more than she’s ever heard him talk before, fills in his parents and her about how his school is going. And even though she talks to him often, there’s still a lot she hasn’t heard about. Mike is quite reserved at the best of times, but the excitement seems to have opened the floodgates.

There’s a slight twisting in her guts as two names get repeated—Sandra and Kate. Apparently, Mike’s new best friends. Mike has never _not_ had female friends; he’s known Brittany practically half his life, after all, but most of his closest friends in high school were male, and Tina doesn’t know whether she’s jealous, or…

Most of it fades when she’s under him, upstairs in his boyhood bedroom, fresh, crisp sheets rumpling around them. Their movements are slow, unhurried. That is part of what is so great about Mike—he is always so gentle with her. Losing her virginity had been so much better than she could’ve imagined—considering how everyone from her mother to Quinn had pretty much just mentioned pain or regret—because he had been so careful, because by then he knew how to get her…aroused. The first time, she’d been on top, holding his hands and leaning her weight onto his arms as she took her time lowering herself onto him, and it had been slow and he had been so still and so patient. Having control of the situation had helped immensely as well.

He lifts his mouth away from hers to smile down at her as they continue to move together steadily, and maybe because it’s been so long, and she’s missed him so much, and his eyes are shining, but Tina’s kind of close. Which is absurd in itself, because she _never_ gets off with just penetration, which Mike has always been happy to work with, but now…

The thoughts of virginity and Mike’s care take her to the remembrance that Mike wasn’t a virgin when they’d first made love. And she thinks, someone must have taught him to be so tender, when the memory hits her that _Brittany_ had been the one to take Mike’s virginity, and…

She spasms, the orgasm taking her by surprise, and apparently Mike, too, because he knows she usually requires more than this. But he’s quick, and strong, and has good reflexes. So he leans to balance on his left arm, reaching his other hand between them, past her own that is fumbling to touch herself, to move a finger over her clit, helping her ride out the orgasm, and his face is flushed, eyes wide as he drinks her in, and he follows not very long after her.

They come down together, cuddling like always, and she just fits against his shoulder, and she strokes his abs, which makes him chuckle.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks, because his brand of quiet is very external, very attentive. Mike isn’t quiet because he’s lost in his own head. He’s quiet because he’s taking in what everyone else is offering, and he’s very perceptive.

She sighs a little, watching the way Mike’s nipple peaks as her breath washes over it. “I’m just sorry we haven’t had a chance to visit yet.”

“Hey, it’s okay” he assures her, “I know we’ve both been busy. We’ve been talking when we can.”

Tina nods, and he kisses the top of her head, and she knows he’s waiting for her to say more, so…

“Is it…is the distance making it hard for you to…remember me?”

Mike gazes at her, concerned, and then says, “No?”

“It’s just…” Tina bites her lip, “I know your program is…female heavy, and it sounds like most of your new friends are women, and I know that we kinda got together from cheating in a situation where we were sort of off on our own.”

Mike smiles at her, a little uncertainly, and then he says, “Would it help if I told you they all think I’m gay?”

Tina’s eyes bug and a laugh jumps up like a cough. “What? That’s completely absurd.”

Mike smiles a little more, “Well, yeah. It’s like a stereotype, a bad and untrue one, that male dancers are gay, and I think because I’m kind of shy, they assumed I was. Of course, when I started mentioning you, they were thrown, but they told me their theory was that I hadn’t realized I was gay yet. When they friended me on Facebook, and they saw your last name, they then changed it to you were my beard and we were ‘in a relationship’ just as a joke about our last names.” He shakes his head, “And then they found a picture of Kurt and I half-hugging at graduation and are convinced he’s my secret boyfriend. It probably didn’t help that, when they’d been trying to get me to come out, they were introducing me to several guys, and if they talked fashion or Cher or something, I’d end up saying things to these guys like, ‘I don’t know much about that, but you’d get along great with my friend Kurt.’” He chuckles a little ruefully, “I had no idea why they were introducing me to these guys, but I wanted to reassure them that I wasn’t a homophobe, I guess, so yeah…Kurt came up a lot.”

Tina blinks several times, “And they told you all this?”

A laugh, “Yeah. They tried to have an intervention or something. Of course, I told them I wasn’t gay, and they countered with no guy can be friends with this many women without trying to bang them all.” He rolls his eyes, “I try to tell them it’s because I’m in love with you, but…”

And Tina is oddly charmed by the fact that her boyfriend has to prove he’s straight to all these girls, but he’s doing it by reaffirming his love for her. Which they find completely unconvincing.

“So…I mean…you are just friends with them?”

His eyes shoot back to her, “Yeah,” he says, “And it’s all I want from them.” He eyes her for a minute, then asks carefully, “Are you still…satisfied with me?”

“Of course,” she tells him quickly, but there’s doubt, there’s doubt because there are strange thoughts. Because it’s both a relief and a frustration that Mike wants only her, because if he didn’t…

He brings their lips together in a kiss, and she smiles into it, but can’t help but wonder what it is he could say that _would_ make her feel okay.

 

_Bring your love, baby, I could bring my shame_

 

In the afterglow of holding the hot blonde in her bed, she just can’t quite fall asleep. Brittany’s making sweet, contented sighs against her shoulder, draping her body over hers, and Santana _loves_ the feel of those willowy muscles and the splay of soft hair against her chest.

Brittany can always read her, though, and after a few minutes, asks, “What’s wrong, San?”

Santana sighs, her breath shifting the blonde hair draped over her, which causes her pussy to twinge distractingly and she shakes it off. “What did it mean when Artie asked if you were still on for Monday?” she asks, her voice small, like she’s lost.

Brittany shifts to look at her, and, her face expressionless, just says, “He’s been tutoring me. Tina’s good at almost everything, but Artie’s a little better at history and Tina took biology sophomore year, so it’s fresher for Artie.”

Santana nods, and, well, it’s not like she _really_ thought they were doing something behind her back, but there’s just something in her that burns when she thinks about the two of them spending time together. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, her voice feeling even more pathetic.

Brittany’s eyes trace her face, then dart away. “I know you get jealous,” she says quietly, “I didn’t want you to worry.”

The burn in Santana’s guts is white-hot for a split second before she reigns in her hurt. “But I found out anyway, and okay, I know you aren’t doing anything together, and I trust you, but I don’t trust _him_. And I don’t want to be the kind of girlfriend who tells you you can’t have friends, but I don’t _like_ it.”

Brittany sits up then, and curls her legs to her chest, which…good. Being able to see those utterly lickable tits while they’re trying to talk would just be…

“I thought it would be worse if you knew,” Brittany tries to defend herself, and in a way, Santana gets it. Because now it’s going to be in the back of her head, knowing that Brittany and Artie are spending time together, alone. “Does it help to know he’s got a crush on someone he does A/V club with? He asked me for advice.”

“Maybe a little,” Santana concedes with a little lip quirk. She stares at her wall a moment and then says, “It’s just so hard, being so far away from you all the time. I worry that we’ll make mistakes. That we’ll get desperate, I guess, I dunno.”

“Is that how you’re feeling?” Brittany asks, and Santana, for whatever reason, isn’t expecting the question, and…she doesn’t know. Her erotic imagination is pretty much limited to Brittany, isn’t it? And they’re pretty good with the sexting and the phone sex, and, _yeah_. Except…there’s work, and the rumors there she does nothing to fight _because it keeps guys from hitting on me,_ she reminds herself. But she and Helen don’t even really talk about them, except to joke about them when they’re _alone_.

Suddenly it all feels like one huge mess.

“I don’t know,” she admits, “I just know I only love you.”

“Me, too,” Brittany says softly, “But…do you _want_ other people?”

Does she? It shouldn’t be such a difficult question. Brittany has been the epitome of what she’s wanted in another person since she was 14, possibly before, and certainly before she was ready to admit it. But that hadn’t stopped her from having sex with a lot of people she _didn’t_ and _couldn’t_ love.

But now, she knows she’s gay. And she’s in a big city, full of women. And she’s young and hot and…not getting any? It doesn’t add up.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” she concedes.

“Sometimes I do, too,” Brittany admits, “It doesn’t mean I love them.”

“I know,” Santana says, her jaw tight, that burning flaring again.

“And I don’t really understand sometimes, because we’ve always done things with other people, like when we were only sorta together.”

“But…we talked about this, and it’s different,” Santana argues, “We’re each others’ now, for real.”

Brittany shrugs a little bit uncomfortably, “But you’re so far away, it just doesn’t make any sense to me. When you were here, it made sense, I didn’t want anybody else, but now I just don’t understand why things don’t go back to the way they were. Where we had each other but we also could have other people.”

Santana looks away. She doesn’t like to think about those first several years of high school, when she and Brittany, well…she guesses they had each other in a sense; Brittany certainly seems to have retroactively decided that they did. They had always been best friends, just with…more. And she hates even more to think about how what they had meant more to Brittany than she’d allowed it to mean to her, for so long. No matter how often they’d repeated “sex isn’t dating” to each other, it became clearer and clearer that Brittany didn’t believe that, at least not when it came to the two of them.

She spreads her hands weakly, “What are you…are you asking to break up?”

“No,” Brittany answers earnestly, “I don’t want that. I want you but you’re right. It’s not enough when we’re so far away.” Santana can feel Brittany’s eyes on her as she squeezes her eyes shut for a long moment, because this just _feels_ like one of those slippery slopes they’ll never manage to scramble out of. “Don’t you want that, too?”

“I guess,” Santana mutters. It’d be a lie if she said she didn’t sometimes wish she were unattached. “Are you really okay with thinking about me and other people?” She wants Brittany to second-guess this, because it’s scary and she doesn’t want to be the one to say no. She doesn’t think she can say no to Brittany.

“I think so,” Brittany responds, “I trust you.” Santana feels a flush of warmth, but Brittany has been paying attention to her, and asks, “Are you okay with it? For me?”

Her face twists. A sudden, violent twinge wracks her heart, “I think it’s more okay…if it’s just girls. Thinking about you and guys hurts, but…”

Brittany frowns a little, “But that doesn’t make any sense. When I was with Artie, you told me that it didn’t count with a girl. Doesn’t that mean you think it shouldn’t count with a boy now?”

Santana closes her eyes again, her chest tightening, and nothing hurts quite like her own manipulation slamming back in her face, like a boomerang she threw two years ago and forgot to catch. “It’s…no…Britt, when I said that…I just missed you and loved you so much I was willing to say anything to keep you next to me.”

Brittany’s face is a little stony, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “So Artie was right? You were manipulating me then?”

“Yes,” Santana admits brokenly, “And I’m sorry. I guess…love makes us do stupid things, right?”

Brittany just _looks_ at her, almost eerily, for another few seconds, then nods. “I get it. I’m not happy you lied to me.”

“I haven’t lied to you since we got together,” Santana cuts in, “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Brittany breathes in deeply, and gives a little smile, finally, “I forgive you and I’ll stop being mad soon. But I don’t really get why you only want me with girls.”

“I…don’t know. It just hurts. I guess I’m afraid you might fall in love easier,” Santana tries, unwilling to voice her fears, the ones she _knows_ are irrational. What if Brittany realizes how much she misses men? She really hasn’t given that much thought to the fact that Brittany’s bisexual for quite awhile, and she doesn’t want to tell her girlfriend how much her sexuality suddenly terrifies her.

Brittany nods a little reluctantly, “Okay. I get that that would scare you, even though I know it won’t happen. Can I make a rule, too?” Santana nods warily, “You’re not allowed to make out with Rachel or Quinn.”

Santana chokes on nothing at this, “What?!” she finally squeaks, and it’s a fucking _embarrassing_ noise, but at the very least, it’s totally shattered the mood.

Brittany just looks at her coolly, “Because Quinn is like, hot like me in a lot of ways, and I know you always secretly thought Rachel was hot, too.” Santana shakes her head vigorously and scoffs, “And they’re your friends, so you have like, the potential to fall in love with them, because you already _do_ love them, right?”

Taking a deep breath, Santana just says, “Yeah, I _do_ love them, but come on! They’re both _straight_ ,” Brittany’s brow furrows in confusion here, “and like, I _don’t_ want them that way!”

“The lady’s pretesting too much,” Brittany notes, and Santana side-eyes her.

“Did you just…quote Shakespeare at me?” Brittany smirks, and Santana leans forward to drag her back on top of her, kissing her lightly on the mouth, “You’re a genius,” she purrs. And just like that, Santana’s done (for the moment) fearing her girlfriend’s fluid sexuality and debating whether or not she wants to make out with her _closest friends_ , and is back to mapping her girlfriend’s entire body, and hoping she’s not saying goodbye to it for the last time.

 

_The consequence of what you do to me_

 

Thanksgiving may have passed, and he may not have had a chance to see his family, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t thankful right now, for this moment, when he _finally_ gets to hold her.

They’ve been kissing on and off for a little over an hour now, taking a break to just cuddle, and she’s warm in his arms, and it’s… _enough_ for now. He’s not a virgin, but she is, and it’s important to her, and this is just something it’s not in his nature to push, even though his mind is screaming with how much he wants her.

His mind, and his…

She hasn’t been ignoring it, per se. Her curious hands have been tracing the waistband of his jeans, grasping his thighs. It’s not entirely new territory for them; she’s touched it before, though not to completion, toward the end of Senior year, before they’d heard that she was going to LA and realized their relationship had an expiration date. They’d scaled things back at that point, trying not to get in too deep, and managed to enjoy their summer together full of dates that felt more like hanging out, and kissing, and nothing else.

But they’re not even really _officially_ together right now. They’re friends. Friends who love and support each other and just happen to really, really physically want each other.

Mercedes’s hand trails back and forth on his thigh, and he leans down to kiss her again, and jeez, this is blue-balling, isn’t it, and it’s not…painful in the way he’s heard Puck complain about it, it’s kind of a sweet torture that just makes him _feel_ so much more for her…

A miniature shudder traces down his spine, much the way her fingers had earlier, starting with strokes to the hairs on the back of his neck and down to just above his waistband. He tears his mouth away and, God, he can’t stop the thoughts, the ones he’s been fiercely ignoring for weeks now, it’s like when the blood in his brain rushes south, it’s not holding back those stupid damn kinky thoughts, and suddenly, he can’t stop himself, and he’s going to ratchet it up a bit, and she won’t even know, and he’s _so bad_. “Tell me about the guy you’ve been seeing,” he husks.

She pulls back to look at him, her brow furrowed in something close to diva-annoyance, and then her expression softens, “Oh, I’m so sorry, you need to cool down?”

Sam looks away a little at that and is silent for so long that Mercedes is forced to pause. “You okay, Sam?”

And he laughs, just once, and says, trying to force away the disappointment that floods him both at _himself_ for asking and at _her_ for not telling him, “Yeah. I’m okay. But you can tell me about him.”

Mercedes studies his face a little more and then says, carefully, “I’m not actually seeing him anymore. We went on a few dates, but we just…didn’t click that way, it turned out.”

Sam swallows, feeling a mixture of relief that it isn’t _serious_ between them and more disappointment that she’s not sharing the details that make him really damn hard. “That’s cool,” he says, and his brain still isn’t fully engaged, obviously, because his next question comes straight from his cock, “Was it like…physical stuff that didn’t work?”

Mercedes is utterly bewildered now, and she tells him a tad reluctantly, watching his face all the while as he refuses to meet her eye, “No, I mean, that was okay. He was a good kisser, maybe a little too aggressive.” Sam’s eyes slip shut for a moment. “He was…really into my rack” she shares hesitantly, and Sam’s breath catches, but his eyes are unfocused, and not in a sad way. “To the point where I felt like we were going a little too far, I guess.”

“Oh,” Sam barely exhales, and shifts his hips a little bit on the bed, and a glance tells Mercedes he really hasn’t cooled down, at all, and there’s a little flush on his cheeks. “Sam,” she says, her tone a little stern now, “Seriously, you okay?”

He shuts his eyes and doesn’t respond for a good ten seconds before he just feels too guilty to lie and he blurts, softly and quickly, “I like it when you tell me about other guys. Like, _really_ like it.”

He won’t meet her eyes, but he can see her expression a little, the way it changes from confusion to…horror?

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, starting to move away from her a bit. God, what’s wrong with him? One hard-on and he completely loses his ability to control himself.

“No, no, wait,” Mercedes says, grasping his arm, “What exactly do you mean?”

His voice is hollow, “I guess it’s like…a kink,” he spits a little bitterly, “I get really turned on when I hear about other guys wanting you.”

His back is to her, and she doesn’t respond for a long while, and then her hand is on his back, gentle. “You…what does that mean?”

“It means…I’m not gay,” he starts, and she snorts a little, because _yeah_ , he guesses _that_ was actually pretty obvious to her, “And…that I obviously really, _really_ , don’t mind that you’re dating people in LA. Even though I love you.”

More silence, then, “I like that I’m dating people, too, even though I love you. It’s…yeah, okay, it’s fun for me. It’s not like I had much chance to do it in high school. And I think you know that I really don’t want anything serious, not while I feel as strongly as I do for you.”

Sam turns to look at her slightly, “Are you…does it gross you out? Because…I don’t really _want_ to be like this, and I’m trying not to think about it too much, but I just…I couldn’t stop myself tonight,” and there’s the slightest whine to his voice.

“It’s…a little weird,” she admits, “But it’s somehow like…like it shows how much you love and trust me, in a way?”

Sam nods a little, studying her face, and her assessment actually relieves him a lot. And then, “Because, I mean, I was thinking, and we don’t actually have to change anything about what we’re doing, but like, because of this, it could make sense if, you know, if you were my girlfriend, and you could still date, like we could be open, and then you could tell me about it, but we’d still be each others’, you know? Because as much as we try to say we’re not together, we really are…”

Mercedes’s mouth drops a little and she says wryly, “At the risk of totally destroying the mood, I think you just channeled Rachel Berry.”

Sam laughs despite everything, and then meets her eyes. “What…what do you think?”

And Mercedes looks right back and then kisses him, “I think,” she kisses him again, “that I’m relieved. I want you to be my boyfriend.”

They kiss a little longer, and then he says, “So, we’re in an open relationship? But, it’s only open for you. Right?”

“If that’s what you want,” she says, touching his cheek gently.

“I do,” he says sincerely. “Other people _should_ appreciate how hot you are.”

She chuckles and ducks her head, “You’re so weird,” she murmurs, “My weird boyfriend,” and she reaches down to cup him through his jeans, which is shocking and he gasps a little.

And she touches him, _really_ touches him this time, going so far as to fumble at his bedside table for his lotion. His only complaint is that she stops his hand from touching her, saying she’s not quite ready for that but she wants _him_ to feel good, which is _so_ not fair, and he feels that as a chill that runs down his sternum to his bellybutton, like the path her lips take while she strokes him gently, and he’s been on edge so long, and the image of her kissing the faceless boy are at the forefront of his mind, that it’s over so quickly…he can barely muster the brainpower to feel guilty about it afterwards.

And by the time he goes back to school on Monday, her Facebook relationship status says “In an Open Relationship,” and while his is still the same (not shown on his profile), everyone _knows_ , and everyone kind of looks at him with a mixture of pride and confusion, and he just grins.

Their relationship may be atypical, but he has a feeling they’ll figure out how to make it work.

 

_I bet he feels like an elephant_

 

He comes back to his bed to see Blaine sitting on the edge in his untucked undershirt and slacks, his expression concerned. Of course, he’d been able to hear most of the conversation Kurt had been having across the room, but had stayed out of it because he hadn’t been sure Rachel wanted him as an audience. Blaine’s concerned eyes meet Kurt’s, and Kurt tries to smile, sitting next to him and leaning against his shoulder.

“I’m really mad at my stepbrother,” he admits softly. Blaine nods a few times, reaching a hand up to stroke the hair on the back of Kurt’s head. “I really hadn’t wanted to take sides in this breakup, because I love them both, but…Finn’s being such an _asshole_. He broke up with Rachel in a really painful way and now is fighting to get her back, like, complete 180, because as usual, he doesn’t know what he wants!”

Typical Blaine tries to sympathize with _everyone_ as he says, “He’s trying to make up for a mistake, right?” which _so_ isn’t helping.

So Kurt almost snaps in response, “But it wasn’t a mistake, Blaine! Didn’t you see the way the two of them kept dragging each other down and holding each other back?! It was _good_ that he broke up with her. Much as I love both of them, they just got to the point that they were _toxic_ …”

“You’re right,” Blaine soothes, pressing a little kiss next to Kurt’s eye, “But I meant that Finn sees it as a mistake. One he can’t easily fix.”

“Right,” Kurt breathes, taking a breath and just feeling the way his boyfriend’s hand runs gently up and down his back, the other resting on his knee. He kisses Blaine almost impulsively, and after a bit, when his hands start to slide beneath Blaine’s shirt, he pulls back, choking on sudden tears.

“Oh, honey,” Blaine says softly, lifting a thumb as if to wipe them away, but Kurt beats him to it, angrily swiping a hand under his eyes.

“He hasn’t written to me once since I moved,” Kurt chokes out, remembering how Finn had given him a hug on Thanksgiving, but had just been so _obviously_ distracted through the whole dinner, then disappeared into his room that evening to work on that song for _Rachel_ , and it feels like he hadn’t even been home…

It’s so _stupid_ to be crying over Finn Hudson, _again_ , he thinks, but the whole thing has just been such a buzzkill that he can’t do much more than kiss Blaine and let him hold him through his tears. Sex will have to wait. He hopes Blaine will be satisfied with kissing and holding each other, for now. The look in Blaine’s eyes, painfully attentive, lets him think that it is okay for now.

And it’s not something he’s ever thought could happen, but he’s been cock-blocked by Finn Hudson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from Nero, “Promises,” Lana Del Rey, “Video Games,” Amy Winehouse, “Back to Black,” The Weeknd, “Wicked Games,” Beach House, “Myth,” and Tame Impala, “Elephant.” Other songs mentioned are Journey, “Don’t Stop Believin,’” Queen, “Somebody to Love,” and Rolling Stones, “Beast of Burden.”
> 
> The use of Conquest as a name is a reference to David Willis’s webcomic “Shortpacked!”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Helen: Santana's sarcastic gay coworker friend, buys her coffees sometimes, gave her champagne for her birthday, Santana feels weird about their friendship occasionally  
> Merry: Young lesbian, new to Glee this year, idolizes Santana  
> Sandra: Introduced this chapter  
> Kate: Introduced this chapter


	17. I never was smart with love

_I never was smart with love_

 

It’s not a new feeling for him, feeling kind of ignored.

It’s just one of those facts of his life. People look at him and think first of his limitations, of the things he can’t do. They _literally_ look down at him all the time, which, he thinks, becomes more of a metaphor as time goes on. He really, truly, believes that people don’t take him seriously because of his condition.

And romance? Forget about it. No one likes to think about disabled people having sex. It turns most people’s stomachs.

So even though he and Blaine led a song for Sectionals (which they’d _killed_ , and Artie hadn’t even been sure he’d be able to handle that kind of Freddie Mercury shriek), and even though he’s _sort of_ dated four girls ( _sort of_ is definitely the emphasis here), he just feels…forgotten.

He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s been dwelling on this so much lately. It’s usually not something he thinks much about, because it’s just part of his routine life now. He thinks, though, that it has to do with watching Quinn walk and dance again, combined with Sugar teasing but never taking him seriously as someone who could be her boyfriend, combined with Mr. Schuester not seeming to take him seriously as a potential leading man _again_.

Blaine’s become a decent friend. They have compatible voices, they both like—but don’t _love_ —football, they even both like superheroes, though, Blaine’s not like Sam in that respect. Sam and Artie can talk actual comic books (though Sam really hasn’t read anything recent, he just says he read a ton of comics as a kid because they were recommended to help him with his dyslexia), but Blaine just likes superhero movies, he’s never read comics. They’ve hung out more since the summer, usually going to see a movie or something, and Blaine has a tendency to be overly-courteous about Artie’s chair—asking him repeatedly if he’s sure he wants to be pushed, whereas most people just kind of _did_ it, fussing about his placement in the theatre so that he can sit in the aisle but still see well, etc. Which is fine, Artie guesses. He likes Blaine. It’s almost impossible not to like someone that genuine and friendly.

Sam is a decent friend, too, though he always seems to be busy. They don’t hang out as much, but they play games together on Xbox Live sometimes—Sam’s a pretty casual gamer, but since Finn left the system at his house, he’s started to get pretty good. Sam’s also the only person he can talk with about _Game of Thrones_ , which is great. And, of course, sometimes they banter in the weight room together, and Sam’s always kind enough to spot him. Otherwise, they usually only spend time together in person if Sam needs some help with school. Artie doesn’t tutor him in quite the same way that he and Tina tutor Brittany—that’s all about finding new and creative ways to help her relate to complex topics and a lot of word repetition so she doesn’t get them confused (though, Artie realizes, _that_ part is somewhat similar to what Sam struggles with…). With Sam it’s usually checking over essays, or tackling specific questions if Sam isn’t sure he understands what he’s reading, or quizzing him on vocabulary, or sometimes a focused math session where they make sure he grasps what different mathematical symbols represent. Sam has had help with his dyslexia since childhood, when he was held back a year and subsequently diagnosed, so he is pretty good at deciding when he needs some extra help and when he doesn’t, and Artie’s always glad to oblige.

But Blaine is endlessly optimistic. Kind of scarily cheerful. It balances out Artie’s sort of natural propensity for pessimism, but it also means that if he confides in Blaine, he already knows _exactly_ the kind of advice he’ll get—things get better, focus on the good, etc. And he and Sam haven’t ventured into the kind of friendship where they confide in each other yet. Artie doesn’t want to be the first to bring up serious shit, even if it’s mostly him just kind of feeling sorry for himself.

There’s really only one guy he thinks he can confide in about this kind of thing, and he’s been sort of incognito for awhile.

 

**Artie-A: Dude, want to hang out  
sometime?**

**Puck: sure dude come on over im off  
today**

 

Puck had just gotten a job at a restaurant that week, which Artie had seen on Facebook. He’s glad, because the hours Puck was racking up on Xbox Live were starting to worry him.

He gets his mom to take him to Puck’s (which is just another thing; sometimes it’s frustrating having to rely on other people to go anywhere, when everyone else his age drives. Maybe someday, he’ll get a car modified for him, but it’s just not in the cards for him right now). Puck answers the door after Artie’s text (because of Puck’s porch, he can’t reach the doorbell), in mesh shorts and a beater, his face stubbly. He smiles a greeting, and steps to the side of the porch to grab the ramp he’d eventually fashioned so that Artie can get into the house. That’s a nice gesture, and Artie appreciates being able to get into the house on his own, especially since he knows getting to Puck’s room is more awkward.

Even though there’s a TV in Puck’s living room, the Xbox is up in his room. Once, Puck had hooked it up to the living room TV when Artie had visited, but his sister had thrown a fit about missing her favorite show and it had just gotten messy. Artie, sensing Puck’s frustration, had just said maybe they should play upstairs next time, and that’s been their plan since.

“Up we go,” Puck says with a smile, leaning down to pick Artie up. Artie wraps his arms around Puck’s neck as the tall young man lifts him easily and carries him, bridal style, up the stairs. Which, while he knows there’s really no other way to do it, is kinda humiliating. He hopes Puck’s sister or mother don’t see. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to these kinds of limitations and sometimes wishes he doesn’t remember what it was like to walk. In general, he can go through life more or less forgetting he’s in a wheelchair, because so much of it is routine now, but then things like this happen, and he’s frustrated with his legs all over again. It’s this reason, though, that he doesn’t often come to Puck’s, and for whatever reason, Puck has been reluctant to come to his house since the beginning of the school year, so unfortunately, they haven’t hung out as much as Artie might like. He kind of assumes that Puck has been a bit depressed—the fact that he doesn’t seem to have showered yet today, judging by the light odor of his skin, just reinforces that theory.

Puck settles Artie onto the armchair in his room and asks if he wants anything to eat or drink, and comes back a few minutes later with Artie’s chair, a couple of cans of Mountain Dew, and a bag of Doritos. He flips on the Xbox and settles onto his bed, tossing Artie a controller.

“What’re we playing?” Artie asks.

Puck snorts, “Not _Skyrim_ ,” he teases, and Artie grins. Clearly, Puck has seen what game Artie’s been putting hours into lately. “ _Bioshock_.”

“Cool,” Artie agrees.

They play for awhile, the only conversation necessary to the game. The ambiance of the game is really tense, anxious, and it helps to have all senses on high alert. Eventually, they reach a part that’s a little bit low-key, a kind of puzzle that’s in a safe-ish area, and Artie is ready to talk.

“I know I’ve asked you this before, but how do you do it? Get all those ladies?”

Puck chuckles and glances at him, “Dude? Way to kick a guy when he’s down. I’ve only been with like, six chicks since, like, Ms. Corcoran. Dry spell, bro.”

“Oh,” Artie says quietly, then after a pause, “Me too.”

“Yeah, well,” Puck shrugs, “Guess I haven’t really been trying. Too much else on my mind. What about you? Been trying?”

“See, that’s the thing,” Artie admits, “I don’t know how to try. With Tina, it was just so natural. Brittany? Woman came right up to me out of nowhere. I guess I tried with Sugar, but you saw how _that_ turned out.”

Puck laughs a little again, “Never really saw the appeal there. But actually, that brings up a good point. You’re aiming too low.”

“Uh,” Artie fumbles, accidentally shooting at nothing in the game, “What?”

Puck rolls his eyes without looking away from the screen, “Look, you get as much ass as me, you’ll find out, chicks dig confident. They dig macho. Well, most anyways. And, well, sure you may never _look_ like me,” he flexes his upper arms and shoulders for emphasis, which looks awkward with the way he’s sprawled out right now, “But you can _act_ like me. Not like, just like me, cause, no offense, but you’re not badass in the same way. But you’ve gotta put on a front that says you’ve got a dick that girls should _want_ to jump on.”

Artie’s a little bit open-mouthed at this, “I don’t understand. I mean, I can’t change who I am.”

“Sure, and don’t, because I know you, and you want more than a hookup. But dude, be _confident_. And start by changing the types of bitches you go after.”

“What’s wrong with the chicks I dig?”

Puck laughs abruptly, “Okay, seriously? Let’s see. You went after Tina because you thought she was, like, disabled, too, or whatever. You’d have never spoken to her if you’d known that stutter was fake, and you know it, ‘cause you told me. Brittany, like, no offense, she’s a sweet girl, but not all that bright, so you had _that_ over her. Sugar has the people skills of an AR-15. Becky, I mean, obviously. And you only even _spoke_ to Quinn when she was crippled.”

Artie winces at his assessment, then snaps, “Look, okay, I know I’m not perfect, so there’s no reason for me to ask a chick to look past what I have to offer if I don’t do the same for her.”

“That’s the thing, bro,” Puck explains, “If a girl really likes you, she isn’t looking past anything. You’ve gotta aim higher. I’m not saying you didn’t actually like any of these girls, and I mean, they’re pretty much all great girls, but like…you can go for someone who’s not, like…disabled. Because that’s how you saw each of them.”

Artie spins his character around to fire a few rounds into Puck’s character’s head, but there’s no friendly fire, so nothing really happens. Puck just laughs a little.

A few days later, he’s tutoring Brittany in the library during lunch. He eats a sandwich while he quizzes her on biology terminology, which she’s started to get down—she’s pretty much a natural with biology, although it helps when he can relate the topic to animals somehow.

After walking—ha!—her through an explanation of the function of the endoplasmic reticulum (she remembers it by likening a cell to a beehive, and the smooth endoplasmic reticulum stores honey and the rough creates royal jelly, and because she knows honey is antiseptic, she thinks “ER” to make the connection), he says, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Brittany nods, leaning back and picking up her chocolate pudding, “Will it be on the test?”

“No, it’s different. Do you think I, uh, only go for women that I pity?” Brittany’s brow furrows, so he says, “I mean, I only went for Tina because I thought she stuttered, and I only talked to Quinn when she was in a wheelchair, too. Of course, even then she was way out of my league, and I wasn’t even really _trying_ anything romantic.”

“You didn’t pity me,” Brittany points out, her gaze trusting.

“Er,” Artie fumbles a moment, “No, I guess you’re right,” he half-lies, because he didn’t _really_ pity her, but he _did_ get frustrated with how slow she could be. Which is, well, she’s been making so much decent progress with school, he’s actually pleasantly surprised.

Brittany nods, “You thought I was dumb sometimes, but that’s not the same.”

Artie decides to just ignore that, because, Jesus, how can she just nonchalantly bring up the thing that completely broke them apart not that long ago? “But do you? Think that about me, I mean?”

Brittany seems to deliberate this, “When you say it like that, maybe. I don’t think that’s right. You should be with someone because you like them.”

“I agree,” Artie says quickly, “I just…I don’t really know how to approach someone…normal. For lack of a better word.”

Brittany tilts her head, “Who’s this normal girl you want to approach?”

Artie feels his throat dry out a little, because, now faced with the question, he has to admit that there _is_ someone he’s kind of been into, someone he hasn’t been able to help bringing up whenever possible, whenever he’s had a chance to be like, you know, there are more girls in A/V club now. But he just hasn’t even let himself think of the possibility, because she just _is_ so normal.

“Annette,” he admits, very quietly. She’s…she’s smart. She’s in A/V club with him, has talked to him a few times about joining the Brainiacs. She’s _nice_. Friendly, but just aloof enough that she’s not overpoweringly chipper or anything. And she’s _pretty_. Black hair—literally black, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen hair this dark on a white girl—brown eyes.

He describes her thusly to Brittany, who smiles at him a little, “Just do like I did to you.”

Artie chokes a little, “Brittany, you just came up to me and told me you wanted to date me.” When Brittany just looks confused, he says, “I can’t do that. I mean, you could do that because you were like, attractive and popular,” he lets out in a rush, blushing a little, “I’m _me_.”

Brittany furrows her brow, “Well, if she can’t see how cool you are, she shouldn’t date you. Just tell her.”

Artie can’t come up with anything to say to that, and even though he’s pretty certain Brittany’s idea is insane, it’s been planted nonetheless.

 

_We’re so close to something better left unknown_

 

It’s really fucking difficult to leave Lima, which is actually kind of shocking, because, Jesus, she couldn’t wait to leave this place, but it means leaving Brittany again, and that hurts.

Even though she kisses her and smiles and tells her she’ll see her in a month. And they’ve done three months, they can do this.

Kurt is similarly sulky when she comes by in the morning on Sunday to pick him up. They’d waited pretty much until the last possible minute to go home, but Santana works that night, so she’s hoping they get home by 8:30 so she can shower, eat dinner and go, which means getting on the road by about 10 at the latest. She stands on the porch a little sullenly with Blaine while Kurt runs back inside to get something he forgot.

Blaine turns to give her a half-hearted smile, “You did the right thing, you know.”

She slightly raises an eyebrow in return, not particularly interested in his cryptic statement. “What?” She kind of expects it might be about Rachel.

“When you opted out of your family’s Thanksgiving. I know it had to have been awful, but going on the offensive against your grandmother wouldn’t have helped. The only leverage you have is your presence in her life, you have to tell her, you need to accept me or I won’t be a part of your life.”

Her eyes feel hot and she’s biting her lip, and she growls furiously, “She doesn’t _want_ me in her life, Closet-Fro. I’m not staying out of it in hopes that she’ll invite me back in, I’m staying out of it because trying to be part of my family is too fucking painful. Got it? I didn’t do it for me or any hopes that she’ll accept me. I did it for her, because _she_ _doesn’t want me_. And I’ll never change that by avoiding _or_ confronting her.”

Blaine’s eyes are wide and his hands are held in front of him in surrender. Santana steps back, having barely realized she’d advanced on him, “Okay. Sorry.”

She sighs and rubs at her face and mutters, “yeah.” She wonders how the hell everyone knows what had happened to her; Quinn and Rachel had been completely unsurprised when she’d told them she’d spent Thanksgiving with Brittany, she knew they knew. She figures whoever told everyone else meant well, and reminds herself that these are all people who care about her and are in her life for just that reason, and the fact that they know her business is meant to be so that they can watch out for her. It only helps a little, but by the time Kurt bounds back out onto the porch, she can force a half-smile at him.

Kurt and Blaine share a long hug and several kisses before Blaine is waving them away. Kurt sits in the passenger seat with a heavy sigh and immediately turns on some Madonna because, as he says, “I need something upbeat right now.”

It works. They’re practically shouting the lyrics to “Like a Prayer” as they pull up in front of Rachel’s house, where Rachel and Quinn are waiting for them (Quinn had decided it would be cheaper and a lot more fun if she drove back to New York with them and then took a train to New Haven from there). It actually works so well that she and Kurt get out of the car and start dancing in the Berrys’s front yard, the music still playing from the car doors they’ve left hanging open. Rachel opens the front door and her mouth drops open a little as she watches, but then she’s leaving her door hanging open, her luggage on the porch, and is grabbing Quinn’s hand to drag her into the impromptu dance party. Quinn’s laughing and twirls Rachel, and the two curious Berry fathers appear on the doorstep next, Hiram smiling and clasping his hands together at the sight, and Leroy clapping excitedly and singing along.

By the time the song ends, Santana is hugging Kurt, and they share a moment of sympathy for leaving behind those they love, before Rachel and Quinn turn it into a group hug, and then they’re laughing, and excited for their road trip.

Santana does a decent amount of the driving this time, because she’s not any more sleep deprived than anyone else and because it _is_ her car, after all. And even though the trip feels _so_ much longer since she’s awake through all of it, it’s still fun. They get lunch at a Sheetz again, they sing along to a lot of different music, plugging and unplugging iPods and iPhones repeatedly. It helps that Rachel and Quinn aren’t blatantly sad about leaving, too. Rachel’d blinked away a few tears when she hugged her fathers goodbye, but as soon as she’d gotten into the car, she seemed fine. Santana is glad that whatever happened with Finn, she doesn’t seem to be dwelling on it.

They do make it home by about 8:30, so Santana pretty much hugs Quinn goodbye and runs into the apartment to get ready for work. Rachel insists on accompanying Quinn to Grand Central, which makes Quinn roll her eyes and insist she knows how to get there herself, but she smiles.

The trouble is, Santana is already exhausted from her sleep schedule getting so screwed up all weekend, and also just because _travel_ is tiring in general, but she took off four days for this trip, which is like two more than she can afford. She needs to get back to work.

When she comes into work, Helen is there. She gives Santana a rare smile and tilts her chin up in greeting, and Santana is relieved she’s there, but…

Halfway through the shift she’s realized she’s being incredibly distant with Helen, and she tells herself she’s just tired. Which is true, but…

That damn conversation with Brittany keeps ringing in her head.

Brittany had pretty much told her she could make out with Helen if she wanted.

Does she want to?

Now that it’s been forced into the forefront of her mind, she can’t help but admit there’s a bit of a spark there. Since the moment they met, they had an easy camaraderie and a, let’s face it, _obvious_ fascination with each other.

Which is weird, because Helen’s just about the opposite of Brittany—snarky, stoic, brunette, hell, the only thing they have in common is that they’re about the same height…

She can’t get these possibilities out of her head, and it just feels like a _trap_ somehow, this permission of Brittany’s. It’s insane.

She gets home even more exhausted than normal and with a headache, and sleeps late, so that it’s dark when she wakes up, which never helps her mood. When she exits the bedroom, she can smells a sort of chemical odor, and wrinkles her nose, working as fast as she can to overpower the smell with the scent of brewing coffee. However, Kurt’s excited voice gets the best of her, and she stands on the edge of the kitchen to see him sitting on the couch, speaking excitedly to his computer.

“Hey, Santana!” he greets excitedly, standing up and twirling. “You like?”

Her eyebrows rise. He’s put some _very_ blond, almost white-blond, highlights in his hair, and somehow looks a lot gayer than normal. She smiles a little, “Looks pretty gay, Homommel.”

He pretends to pout, “Well, at least Blaine was nicer about it,” he gestures to his computer, and picks it up to face her so that she can see Blaine taking up his Skype screen, and his smile turns a bit nervous when faced with her. “Say hey to Blaine!”

Santana jerks her head up in a nod, “Hey, Warbles.”

Blaine laughs at this, “I guess I’ll never escape that once a Warbler, always a Warbler thing, huh?”

Santana folds her arms, “God, does it ever get exhausting being that fucking cheerful?”

Blaine chuckles again, but his expression is uncertain. Santana huffs and waves him away while she turns back into the kitchen to get working on her breakfast. She hears Kurt reassure him gently, “You know that’s how Santana shows her affection.”

“I show affection to no one!” Santana shouts, but she’s smiling a little now, and by the genuine laughter Blaine and Kurt share, she can tell they know she’s smiling, and that Blaine has relaxed again.

It’s when she heads to work that night that things feel a little different.

Helen’s there, again, and her greeting is a lot cooler than it had been yesterday, and guilt pierces Santana’s gut again. She realizes she’s being hot and cold with the girl, but she just doesn’t know what she’s _supposed_ to do right now. Now that the…possibility has been opened up, damned if she doesn’t feel just fucking lost. She has no idea _what_ she wants.

But then, as they’re heading toward the fresh food section, Santana spots something she doesn’t think she’s ever seen in the store overnight—a blonde girl.

Her steps almost falter when the girl turns to look at them both, smiles, and lifts a hand in greeting to Helen, who returns it. She doesn’t miss the fact that the girl is wearing a hemp necklace with a rainbow charm hanging from it.

“Who is that?” Santana asks, undeniably curious.

“Oh. Angela. She works mornings usually, but during Christmas, they make a team overnight to work in toys and electronics, since those are so heavy.” Helen sounds mostly nonchalant.

“Oh. Is she like us?” Santana mumbles vaguely, embarrassed as the words come out of her mouth that she can’t even bring herself to say it. Even now, the words feel taboo here. Unsafe.

“Yeah,” Helen chuckles, “She’s pretty open about it. When we worked on planograms together, there were rumors about us, of course.”

Santana smirks, “Any of them true?”

Helen chuckles a little, “No, she’s really not my type.”

“I thought you didn’t have a type?” asks Santana, because that had been the conclusion they both had drawn when they’d discussed it, what, a month or two ago?

Helen shrugs a little bit uncomfortably, “Ah, well, I mean, I don’t, but I have an anti-type, and a dating history. I’m not attracted to blondes, and I’ve really never dated anyone white. Not because I wouldn’t, just…hasn’t worked out that way.”

Warning bells are clanging like a fucking firehouse in Santana’s head, as Helen kind of gazes away from them as they walk, and what was that? Santana, first of all, can’t really fathom not being attracted to blondes, but then, she figures, Helen has never seen Brittany, shit, Helen doesn’t even know Brittany _exists_ , and…Helen has only dated women of color? This is an admission of… _something_.

It’s at this moment that she realizes where she stands on the issues of her and Helen. It had been muddled from the start, with her being _kind of_ attracted to her, enjoying their intellectual connection, her not knowing the lines of friendship, her maybe, perhaps, being flattered by the possibility of other girl’s attraction. She never considered it could go beyond that, that even though, sure, Helen’s cute, and funny, and probably has the longest tongue Santana has ever seen (she frequently sticks it out to trace the edge of her iced coffee lid to lick up coffee that spills out when she sticks in the straw, and Santana always watches), she just _can’t_ do this with her. It would be…kind of like what she did to Sam. Using her by drawing her into something where she might get hurt, because, under these circumstances, Santana can’t return the feelings Helen maybe has. Under different circumstances, _maybe_ , but that just makes this all the worse of an idea.

And even though, Jesus, she was just fucked about sixteen different times by Brittany over the weekend, she doesn’t even _want_ anybody else right now, it’s disappointing to know that she can’t get her mack on with Helen if she has an itch she needs to scratch.

 

_I only wish my words could convince myself that it just wasn’t real_

 

After Thanksgiving, there’s not too much left of the semester, but what’s left is crazy.

Rachel is frequently exhausted anyway, from working two part-time jobs while attempting to complete 15 credit-hours, and from being involved in both plays. Luckily, the one in which she basically just has her one duet is pretty easy, but it’s set to go on the week before Finals Week, so it’s getting manic. Yet somehow, the modern re-telling of the Theseus and the Minotaur myth is more time-consuming, even though it doesn’t go on until January.

It helps that her social life is pretty limited to her roommates and Quinn, as well as texts, Facebook or calls with former Glee club teammates. That’s fairly sporadic, though, even with Mercedes. The person who probably texts the most besides Quinn is Puck. They have the weirdest inside joke/ritual in which he will text “wat r u wearing” and she will describe, in benign and casual terms that under no circumstances include discussion of her undergarments, her chosen outfit for the day. He’ll tell her something like “sounds hot” or “good choice” and then, prompted by her, will describe his own outfit (graphically) before telling her to have a good day. It’s nice, to feel like he’s checking up on her, even if he disguises it behind his ridiculous perverse persona.

She’s made sure to mention school friends several times, however, mostly to Santana, because she worries school- _anything_ is still a taboo subject with Kurt, but it’s mostly so Santana won’t worry. But “friends” might be slightly too strong a word for her relationships with these people.

She feels like she was inexorably changed by her relationship with Jesse St. James. He had been so much like her—driven, talented, arrogant (not that she’d call _herself_ arrogant; she thinks she is more _confident_ ). And even though she’d been _sure_ there was a spark there, and every time she’d seen him after they broke up, she’d felt it jolt in her chest like jumper cables, he’d still decided to dump her—in an unnecessarily humiliating way, she still thought—for what he perceived as his chance for a good future. She can’t really fault him for following his dreams, but the eggs, the deception…she _can_ fault him for that.

And she has no other way to see her classmates but as a mixture of him and Harmony, both people who fill her with more trepidation than affection.

She isn’t good at trusting anymore, she thinks. Despite loving him deeply, she doesn’t even fully trust Kurt anymore because of all the stupid fights they’ve had over the years, and while she probably trusts Santana and Quinn more than anyone except, perhaps, her fathers, she has to admit there’s still a tiny part of her that just thinks that one day, they’ll decide she’s a loser again. She trusts them more than she rationally _should_ , and she knows that. Those two stretch her trust to its limit, and she just doesn’t have any extra to extend to her classmates.

So they’re more acquaintances than anything else. She’ll meet them at coffee shops or the library to study, sometimes she’ll practice her singing with a few of them, but mostly, she meets them in school-related contexts. Occasionally, she’s met them for social calls, little on-campus gatherings and the like, but if she’s honest, she really doesn’t have time for that.

There is one guy, though, that…as cliché as it sounds, he just doesn’t _seem_ like everyone else in the program. He’s confident and talented, sure, but he’s also humble, and genuinely _kind_ , and easygoing. In spite of her trepidation, she likes him. She wants to befriend Jeremy.

He plays the lead role in _Theo and the Science Labyrinth_ , and she is a secondary role (Phaedra, or Faye, the sister of Jeremy’s character’s love interest Ariadne, or Ari, who is, incidentally, played by this dismissive bitch named Gretchen who irritates Rachel, and luckily their characters tend to clash, so that comes out easily onstage). Because of this, Jeremy and Rachel don’t have too many scenes together, but when they do work together, they play off of each other effortlessly. The director, a senior student who is pretty laissez-faire about his process, encourages them to critique each others’ work after every scene before he himself offers any, and Jeremy usually squeezes her shoulder and tells her, “No complaints, short stop.” Which, she’d wanted to glare at him at first for the nickname, but she had to admit his compliment made her feel very warm, because she’s seen Jeremy make gentle suggestions to almost everyone else (she loves it when he gives advice to Gretchen, who always struggles to mask her annoyance. And it does surprise her, because the chemistry between Gretchen and Jeremy looks natural and effortless to her).

When Neal, the petite guy playing Icarus, or Ike, blatantly flirts with Jeremy one day, Jeremy squeezes his shoulder and smiles in his easygoing, friendly way and says, “I’m flattered, but I’m straight.” And…Rachel _loves_ that. She loves how easily he lets Neal down, and she actually _loves_ that she’s in an environment in which guys have to come out as _straight_. It’s such a bizarro world type of place in that way, and it makes Rachel really happy to surrounded by people who just take homosexuality as a given, and who aren’t offended if they’re assumed to be gay. It makes her wish, fervently, that Kurt could be here, too.

It’s also good that the rest of her semester is so busy because, against her will, she is dwelling on Finn.

God, she doesn’t _want_ to be, but it’s like every time she has a moment alone, his face pops up in her mind, and “Beast of Burden” has gotten stuck in her head more times than she’d like to admit. And whenever she comes home, it’s like her palms itch to check their mailbox, but she refuses. She has no idea how many letters have come, because she refuses to let herself get pathetic enough to beg Santana and Kurt to tell her; besides which, she knows they won’t.

But she _fantasizes_ about the day that they forget to check the mail, and she gets there first, and she can read the letter from him, telling her how much he loves her, about how he tells his unit about her and how he’s going to marry her someday all the time, about how he looks at her Senior year portrait every night before bed, about how he’s doing this for her, so she’ll be proud of him, so he can stand beside her.

But at the same time…she tries so hard to remind herself of _why_ she craves these words from him: because they had been so rare, and, when she thinks about it, had usually only been employed when he wanted something from her, usually forgiveness. She remembers Quinn talking about how Finn had, as far as she knew, completely unprompted, told her she had been beautiful as Lucy. How she’d seen Finn’s baby blanket once, and he had told her about how he’d given it to Quinn to give to who he had thought would be _their_ baby when she was born (Quinn had evidently left it on Finn’s bed when he’d kicked her out of his house). And when she compares these gestures with the things he did for her—a pig slaughtered in her honor, a star named after him—she feels…cheated somehow.

She had always envied Quinn and Finn’s relationship, the way they had strutted the halls like teenage royalty, and even though she’s heard from Quinn that it had been mostly appearances, that she hadn’t even really _loved_ Finn… (but, she thinks, that doesn’t seem quite possible, Quinn had fought for him with _passion_ , and of course, Finn had loved _Quinn_ , because how couldn’t he…) her relationship with Finn had never felt like that, because of how often he’d felt like he needed to dismiss her for his popularity, how he’d never been able to bring her up to his level, had never even really _tried_ …it had really only felt like that once, when they’d brought home the Nationals win, and she had earned that place in teenage royalty herself, at that point.

She figures she must be a masochist; there’s no other way to explain the desperate way she pursued Quinn Fabray’s friendship for the past several years, and this desperation for validation from an ex-boyfriend she _knows_ , logically, she needs to leave behind, just adds more proof.

One Tuesday, Rachel comes home to find Santana watching TV in her sweats; must not be a work night, she realizes. Santana smiles a greeting and Rachel microwaves some rice and frozen vegetables for her dinner. Settling next to Santana, who’s apparently watching _Bad Girls Club_ completely unironically, eyes pretty much glued to the screen, she hears the other girl mumble, “Damn, when is Kurt getting home, he’d love this episode.”

Rachel is at first surprised that the two of them apparently watch really trashy TV together, but then realizes that she doesn’t witness most of their friendship. She’s realized how strange Kurt’s sleep schedule is; he appears to not necessarily sleep when he is tired, but to approach sleep from a mathematical standpoint, and make up for sleep lost when he stays up late by sleeping more later in the week. And often, when Santana is off work, Rachel will come out of the bedroom to use the bathroom at two or three in the morning to find Kurt still awake with her, watching something ludicrous on TV, or beating the hell out of each other in _Super Smash Brothers_.

Checking the time on her phone, Rachel frowns, “He should be home soon.”

Not two minutes later, Kurt comes in, closing the door quickly behind him and leaning against it, looking sick and pale.

“’Bout time, come watch this—” Santana starts, but then stops immediately on seeing his face.

Rachel shoots up out of her seat, “Are you okay?”

Kurt’s throat bobs a few times and he shakes his head slightly. His hair is mussed and his eyes are huge. “Just…street harassment,” he reveals quietly.

“What?” This time, Santana shoots out of her seat. “What do you mean? What happened?”

Kurt closes his eyes and laughs humorlessly, “You must’ve been right about my hair, Santana. Three guys followed me for a block calling me a faggot. And I mean, you guys know I’ve been bullied and harassed before, but this was legitimately terrifying. This was on the street, there was no one around who cared.”

Santana inhales sharply. Rachel winces. She knew, when they were looking at apartments, that this isn’t the best neighborhood, but in all honesty, it’s not as if they can afford to live wherever they want in the city. Even three people in a two-bedroom apartment in this neighborhood is incredibly expensive. It’s why she’s always carrying pepper spray and a rape whistle, and why she always appreciates when she and Kurt meet up in the subway station before walking home together some nights. Safety is important here.

“Kurt, why didn’t you call me?” she asks, and he just shakes his head.

“I don’t know,” he admits, “I was just so scared.”

“Alright, new rule,” Santana announces, folding her arms, “No one walks home alone.”

“It’s not that easy,” Kurt protests.

Santana growls a little, “You guys usually get home just before I leave for work. I have time to meet you before I have to leave. Or, Kurt, go to the NYADA campus and wait for Rachel, or Rachel, go to work to wait for Kurt. Honestly, I know I don’t use the public transportation much, but I’ve had guys watch me that I’m _sure_ would have said something if it were night, and the streets were more deserted. Not to mention, muggers exist.”

Rachel ducks her head, “I’ve had men say inappropriate things a few times,” she admits, because she has. A few times a group of men had talked loudly among themselves about what they’d like to do to her, a few other times, men passing her on the street had told her, unprompted, how good she looked, in ways that made her skin crawl.

Santana is half-glaring now, “Why didn’t you say something?” she asks, alarmed.

Rachel shrugs helplessly, “It didn’t seem like a big deal. It was gross and inappropriate, but I never felt _unsafe_ ,” she gestures to Kurt, who is _still_ lightly trembling, and she goes over and gives him a hug, which makes him sigh a bit raggedly into her hair.

Santana’s not done, though, and she crosses to get next to Rachel, “But you could be unsafe, don’t you get that? I mean, I called you a dwarf all those years for a reason—not saying it was a good one, or a nice thing to say, but you’re _tiny_. You both are _targets_. I mean, so am I, but I’m not out there every day.”

Rachel squeezes her eyes shut, not having a good answer, and buries her face into Kurt’s shoulder. Santana sighs, mildly frustrated, but then reaches over to join them both in the hug.

And in that moment, a bit of the glitz and glamour of being in New York washes away. She could overlook the price, her intensely talented peers, sharing a room.

But she can’t overlook a shaking Kurt and a Santana nearly in tears with worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Robyn, “Indestructible,” Metric, “Gimme Sympathy,” Jim Croce, “Operator.” Other songs mentioned are Madonna, “Like a Prayer,” and Rolling Stones, “Beast of Burden.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Helen: Santana's sarcastic gay coworker friend, Santana feels weird about their friendship occasionally  
> Jeremy: Introduced this chapter  
> Gretchen: Introduced this chapter  
> Neal: Introduced this chapter  
> Angela: Introduced this chapter


	18. Oh please believe me, I'm more scared than not

_Oh please believe me, I’m more scared than not_

 

There are only about two weeks after Thanksgiving until “Reading Period” begins, which seems to be a week to prepare for Finals. Quinn’s a little surprised by this, but she supposes it makes sense, because her finals are all cumulative and just the thought of them is stressing her out. She’s grateful, though, that her English teacher is one of the few decent teachers she’d had at McKinley; she at least had a pretty good idea of how to write an essay going in to college, now cultivated by her composition class, which should help, as most of her finals are essays.

A few weeks before Thanksgiving, she’d gone to get lunch at the dining hall at around 11 on a Tuesday, between her two classes, and ran into Sean there. They’d ended up sitting together, and a discussion of their schedules had revealed that this was usually a good time for both of them to eat on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sealing her into agreeing to meet for lunch on those days, Sean had stated that he takes a nap after his 8am class on those days and will not be setting an alarm; Quinn will have to wake him up for lunch, or he would probably sleep right through it and right through his 12:30 class. Laughing and rolling her eyes, she’d agreed. Stephanie’s eyes had sparkled with mirth when she’d found out Quinn and Sean were eating together regularly.

“Going for your lunch date with Sean?” she asks cheekily the week after Thanksgiving, after their shared Thursday History class, in which Quinn had spent what felt like the whole class rolling her eyes at this one guy’s obvious ass-kissing of their professor. She has more than one class with this guy, and she wants to strangle him in each one.

“They’re not dates,” Quinn sighs.

“Sure,” Stephanie smiles.

Quinn doesn’t even bother trying to contradict her. She’s been making her case for weeks now that, although Sean is a genuinely nice guy, there’s nothing between them. She remembers thinking initially that Sean was attracted to her, but even that has faded; his behavior has been clearly friendly. But Stephanie seems obsessed with Quinn’s sex life. Or lack thereof, she thinks, not even really bitterly at this point.

As Stephanie heads to her next class, Quinn goes back to the dorm and knocks firmly on Steve and Sean’s door. Sean answers, bleary-eyed and scratching his beard (he and Steve had both forgone shaving in November, but more out of laziness than anything else), and behind him she can see that Steve is still in bed, which, what the hell? She’s pretty sure Steve is supposed to be in class right now, but maybe it was cancelled. She doesn’t know.

“Let me put on pants,” Sean says quietly, shutting the door and emerging a few minutes later clothed, but still with red eyes.

At the dining hall, Quinn gets some kind of spicy chicken wrap. Her appetite is still pretty light at this time of day, but waiting until after her 12:30 class is a bad idea. Sean gets tomato soup and a grilled cheese, and Quinn always smiles at the way he dips his sandwich in the soup, like a kid. He always just shrugs and says he is a simple man with a basic palette—Taco Bell is considered ethnic food where he’s from.

They exchange small talk. Sean isn’t sure why Steve is still in bed, either, but he thinks he didn’t go to his morning class either. Quinn says she thinks Lulu will be visiting the dorm that night for a drawing contest—a good nearly end-of-week stress reliever. Sean wants to go hiking that weekend, which they’ve done a few other times, sometimes without Quinn and Lulu, who are frequently busy on weekends. Quinn nods, “I think I’ll be in town this weekend.”

Sean’s expression shifts from his typical serious, stoic face to his amused one, “What is actually the deal with you and New York?” he asks.

Quinn rolls her eyes, “Don’t tell me you’re listening to Stephanie. You met Rachel that one weekend. I’m _not_ visiting some imaginary boyfriend.”

“No, I believe that,” Sean responds, “I get that Rachel’s your best friend, but I mean…I miss my friends from high school, too, but I don’t visit them like that, I just look forward to seeing them on breaks. I mean, it’s like Lulu, how she spends her weekends with her boyfriend all the time, I guess? Most people don’t put that much effort into a friendship.”

There are words on the tip of Quinn’s tongue, and Sean is just so _nice_ and she’s spent enough time with just him that she might _trust_ him a little bit, which is terrifying, because trusting anyone has never exactly gotten her anywhere good.

Ultimately, she swallows the words, forces a smile, and says, “I do, I guess. I don’t know how not to.” It’s the truth for this case, at least.

Sean eyes her a moment longer, as if expecting she’s going to admit that like, Rachel’s roommate is her boyfriend or something, but then shrugs and dips his sandwich in his soup.

Quinn feels the familiar sting of cowardice.

In Pottermore—which, come on, what kid in her generation _hadn’t_ given the site a try?—she had first been sorted into Gryffindor, but she knew it was such a lie that she’d deleted her account and tried again.

That’s what this feels like, but there’s no delete, and the opportunity is gone.

 

_I think it’s alright to feel inhuman_

 

Friday, a week before Reading Period, usually means video games or movies or something.

This week, though, those plans seem to be scrapped. Lulu’s boyfriend has been whining that he never sees her (which, as far as Quinn can tell, is bullshit because Lulu goes there more evenings than not. Quinn’s never met the guy, but she’s pretty sure she wouldn’t like him. Stephanie has, and immediately told Quinn she hates him, but won’t say anything to Lulu). Likewise, Stephanie sighs in irritation and says that Steve has been bugging her to hang out alone sometime soon. Once she leaves, Quinn figures she can hang out with Sean, but when she texts him, he says he’s going to a party thrown by a group of Chemistry majors (the major he wants to declare) and he figures he should get to know them. He says she’s welcome to come along, but she declines. She hasn’t gone to any parties at Yale yet. Stephanie had told her early on that she didn’t drink because both her parents were alcoholics and Quinn has to admit that some of her hesitation for drinking at school might come with that. Drinking with her high school friends, though she still moderates her intake very carefully, feels much safer. She hasn’t always had great luck with alcohol, and much as she likes Sean, she’s not sure she trusts him to keep an eye on her. So, sighing, she figures the best she can do tonight is get working on her homework. Yeats won’t read himself. Besides, maybe they will go hiking that weekend, like Sean wanted.

She’s not too familiar with much from this era of poetry. The only poetry she can really remember reading a lot of in high school is stuff like Robert Frost or Emily Dickinson—American poets, mostly, and fairly easy to interpret. She’d branched out some herself, sure, with Sonia Sanchez, e. e. cummings, Langston Hughes. Not that she dislikes any those poets now, but the British poets class has really been fascinating. She’d loved the Romantic poets they’d studied—Wordsworth and Blake especially—and though the Victorian poets hadn’t grabbed her quite as much, some of the Modernist ones are. She’s not sure that Yeats will be one until she reads “The Second Coming.”

So many images. So many metaphors. By the time she finishes reading the poem for the first time, she shivers at the apprehension the poem conveys—it’s visceral, powerful.

She’s about to start a few paragraphs of analysis—her method of preparing for class, not an assignment—when she hears the key in the door of the dorm. She glances at her clock. It’s barely been an hour.

Stephanie comes back in, sighing, kicking off her sneakers and tossing her coat onto her bed. Quinn watches her, eyes narrowed, until Stephanie finally glances up to meet her eyes, “Hey,” she says dully.

“Hey,” Quinn answers uncertainly. She lets her eyes fall back to her book, but finds she can’t ignore the fact that her roommate is obviously upset about something. “You okay?” she asks uncertainly.

Stephanie sighs and sits down on her bed. “Eh. Just frustrated with Steve.”

“Oh?” Quinn asks, raising an eyebrow. She hadn’t noticed anything between them. When they all hung out together they’d take sarcastic shots at each other like always. Had they been getting snippier without Quinn noticing?

Stephanie props a foot on the edge of her bed to rest her head on her knee. “Yeah. I dunno, when I went up to his dorm to meet him, I was sitting at his desk waiting for him to put his shoes on and I saw one of his recent tests. He got a D. We argued about it at dinner. He’s not doing well in class right now and he won’t tell me why.” She shakes her head, “He’s smart. I mean, I know his family’s rich but he’s not at Yale because of that. He was fifth in his graduating class. I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“What did he tell you?” Quinn furrows her brow. This does seem shocking. Steve doesn’t seem like the type of guy to screw around at school.

“He didn’t tell me anything! Just told me the test was a fluke and not to worry.”

“Maybe it was?” Quinn suggests, “I mean, the semester’s getting down to the wire. Maybe he just had a bad week, didn’t have time to prepare for it.”

Stephanie shakes her head, “No. I can tell when he’s lying to me. Something going’s on. And I’m just…I’m _frustrated_ with him. Sean told me the other day that Steve slept through two of his classes. I mean, that’s ridiculous. How can I help him if he won’t even go to class?”

Quinn’s a bit horrified at that, because she hasn’t missed class once this semester—leaving the room to call Rachel _really_ doesn’t count, not when she needed her, besides, she was only gone from class for five minutes, tops—and she knows Stephanie and Sean have similar attendance records. They’re the kind of geeks who like school, who take it seriously. However, “Maybe he just needed a break. Like I said, the semester’s getting crazy right now.”

Stephanie sighs, “Maybe you’re right. I just have a feeling something’s going on, and I don’t get why instead of worrying about him or feeling sympathetic I’m just getting _angry_ with him.” Quinn shrugs a little helplessly at that, and Stephanie finally sighs and fully meets her eye. “Thanks for listening, Quinn. You’re sweet.”

Quinn rolls her eyes, “Yeah, yeah. That’s what I’m here for. Can’t exactly get away from you.”

Stephanie chuckles weakly, then says, “Like you would want to.”

Quinn laughs then. But she’s right. Quinn’s glad she has Stephanie for a roommate, and for a friend.

 

_You’re more than a superstar_

 

Deciding to come see Rachel in the musical is an easy choice.

Rachel had tried to downplay the whole thing, talking about how she only had a few scenes, and pretty much just a duet, and how she knows Quinn must be busy wrapping up her semester. Quinn had pretended that she wasn’t sure whether she could come, but really, there is no question. It’s the weekend that Reading Period begins, and she feels like she has plenty of time to complete the papers she has to write and to study for the finals she has to take. And besides. It’s _Rachel_.

She gets in touch with Santana to figure out how best to go about visiting, because with Rachel’s hesitance (perhaps embarrassment that her first role in a production in New York City—even a school production—is such a small one?), she doesn’t want to have to convince her friend that she _does_ , in fact, want to be there. Santana says she and Kurt are planning to see the Thursday evening production (there are to be four; Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings and a Sunday matinee) because they both have the evening off, but Quinn won’t get out of class in time to join them Thursday. So she asks Santana if she thinks she should surprise Rachel on Friday, and Santana tells her she should do whatever the hell she wants and that she and Kurt will be fine if she stays at the apartment.

She makes Santana send her detailed instructions for how to get to the auditorium in which the show is being performed, including subway lines she should take, as she still doesn’t quite trust her phone’s map. She has to trust the map for one thing, however, because she’s not about to ask Santana how to get to a flower shop while she’s at it. That’s something Santana will tease her about. So she does find one on her map and, without letting herself think too hard about it, gets Rachel a bouquet of daffodils. Because it’s appropriate to give flowers as congratulations, right? Besides, Quinn has always liked daffodils.

The theater is packed. She’s not sure what she expected, but not this. A good seventy percent seem to be college-aged kids—no surprise, given the school—and the rest are adults—professors? Parents? People in town? Surely, all of the above. Quinn finds a spot off to the left side of the auditorium in the middle and reads through the playbook.

She can’t help but smile when she sees Rachel has specifically thanked Quinn, Santana and Kurt in her bio. She reads it over and over again. Rachel hadn’t even known she’d _be there_ to read it.

And the show itself, well. Quinn likes it just fine. Okay, a lot. She likes the fact that show tries to dismantle racism; “You’ve Got To Be Carefully Taught” hits her harder than she expects, and an angry chill shoots up her chest at her father, whose racism had been subtle, but there, which she had not realized until her teenage years. The cast is pretty solid—again, unsurprising—and Rachel…well, watching Rachel sing up there with a short guy with a voice like Kurt’s (who is still a little too tall and a little too dark to pass as Rachel’s character’s brother) a simple little tune, somehow even just _that_ gives her chills. When Rachel sings, she’s never been able to do anything else but sit up and pay attention. And Rachel does something with her posture, the way she points her toes slightly in and sways with her shoulders more than her hips when she walks, she somehow conveys the childishness her character possesses pretty convincingly.

All in all, Quinn sees no other option but a standing ovation after the musical is over.

Out in the lobby of the auditorium, she along with a good fifty percent of the crowd stand waiting for the actors to emerge. They watch the side doors expectantly, some eating refreshments, loudly chattering. Quinn clutches her purse and the daffodils.

Rachel finally emerges, laughing with the little guy who played her brother, messing up his hair. Quinn stands in the crowd, eyes trained on Rachel. She feels almost creepy, like a stalker-fan, as she watches as Rachel accepts brief congratulations from people in the front of the crowd for the first twenty seconds or so, until her eyes land on Quinn.

Her hand flies to her mouth—an overdramatic gesture that somehow seems perfect for a Rachel fresh off the stage. Quinn smiles warmly and approaches her. “You were amazing,” she greets softly, passing the daffodils to the actress.

Rachel takes them without thinking, and then finds her voice, “Oh my God, Quinn!” tumbles out of her mouth, and she throws her arms around the taller woman, the daffodils still clutched tightly in her hand. Quinn winces, wondering briefly if the flowers just got crushed, before she squeezes Rachel back. “I had no idea you would be here!” Rachel enthuses as she pulls back, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Isn’t it better this way?” Quinn smiles.

“I would have made my performance extra-special for you,” Rachel pouts, “like I did for Santana and Kurt.”

Quinn shakes her head, “I don’t believe for a minute that you put anything less into your performance tonight than last night.”

Rachel’s eyes glint for a moment before she grins, “No, I suppose you’re right.”

They gaze at each other for another few seconds, and Quinn abruptly feels awkward. They spent a decent amount of Thanksgiving break together, doing what they typically do—watch TV—but they really hadn’t talked much about anything serious. Not even when Quinn had brought over _500 Days of Summer_. She’d let Rachel cry herself out, over _Finn_ , but Rachel really hadn’t said anything except that she felt _sure_ now that nothing with him would ever work. And Quinn had watched and held her as she’d cried for the relationship that had actually ended months ago.

It’s not fair for her to be frustrated with Rachel about this. It’s just that Rachel is such an _expressive_ person that she can’t believe that she _wouldn’t_ want to talk to Quinn about this, since it’s such a monumental thing. She knows that even when Rachel didn’t really have friends, she would end up venting some of her pain onto her fathers (though, clearly, not all of it, because she’d never detected hostility from the men, and Quinn also suspects Rachel hid a lot because, from what she can tell about her fathers, if they’d had any idea how badly Rachel was bullied, they’d have pulled her from McKinley and sprung for private school). So she knows Rachel has always had somewhat of an emotional outlet in her life and, okay, maybe she’s _jealous_ that it’s Kurt for her again, or, God forbid, even Santana—there’s someone you can’t really expect sympathy from.

She’s also fairly certain Rachel has been able to read her frustration, and that the hesitance between them could grow if they don’t do something to change it.

Quinn doesn’t really acknowledge _what_ she can do to change it, because, she’ll admit, she wants Rachel to break first, to confide in her first, before she’ll do the same.

She may never quite outgrow the idea that friendships are competitions, too.

But for now, Rachel examines her daffodils with a tender smile, Quinn swallows down the pulse in her throat that jumps to life when she watches, and eventually, after some pleasant, low-key conversation over Italian takeout, they head home to curl up together in Rachel’s bed.

That, at least, always feels right.

 

_I’ll never let you sweep me off my feet_

 

It’s her finals week, which means she’s probably going actually crazy—so crazy that, unfortunately, she’s unable to visit Quinn at New Haven like she’d wanted and briefly considered. She feels guilty that there are still trips on her Metro-North pass. She ended up taking time off from work, which she hates to do, but it’s just a fact that she’s pretty much just running around like it’s Hell Week again (which, thank God the musical is over and the play goes on in January, and it’s not _actually_ Hell Week on top of everything). She’s singing the same song over and over again dancing the same routine over and over again, studying her notes and writing practice essays.

It’s also Hanukkah, and it’s the first time she’s barely been able to celebrate. She ends up lighting candles pretty late at night, and ends up doing homework in her bedroom so she won’t be working in front of the candles. Kurt nearly hyperventilates when he comes home to unattended burning candles at one point, but she sets a timer so she doesn’t forget about them. Her fathers had sent her a package with little gifts, and she calls them on evenings when she makes it home before nine to thank them, and they open gifts together, and sometimes light the menorah and say the blessings together, but she barely has the attention to spend on it. She’s sure she won’t make it to synagogue—she’s never bothered to find one in the city to get comfortable attending—and it really feels almost like an inconvenience at this point in the year, which is sad, because she had always looked forward to it. Maybe she can go out and get some good latkes or something.

She’s usually better at taking care of the house, but this week she’s just been neglecting it, to the point that Santana yells at her and Kurt (who frequently has this problem) about all the dishes in the sink and scattered throughout the house. Kurt just looks pale and guilty and apologizes, saying it was always his chore at home and he _hates_ it, and isn’t trying to put it off forever, he just keeps forgetting. Rachel snaps that she is having a really busy week and things will be better by the end and until then, Santana will just have to deal with it, before storming into her ( _their_ ) room.

Santana follows, eyes blazing, pointing to the half-full cup of water and plate on the floor next to Rachel’s bed. “That’s not cool. Seriously, Berry, I have to live here, too, and I know I’m not the most _organized_ person,” she gestures to her side of the room, which is, as always, kind of cluttered, “but at least I’m _clean_!”

“It’s my finals week!” Rachel shouts back, far beyond being intimidated by an angry Santana, “I have enough on my plate right now, but _fine_ , you know what? I’ll do the _stupid_ dishes!”

“That’s _not_ what I meant, and don’t you fucking _dare_ , you’re just enabling Kurt to keep leaving messes everywhere if you do.”

Rachel storms back out with the plate and cup and tosses them, harder than is necessary, into the sink and turns on the water. Santana stands nearby with her arms folded, continually muttering, “Don’t _do_ this,” and finally Kurt comes over to stand tentatively next to Santana, holding a dirty plate and bowl.

“I’ll do them. I’m sorry, Rachel, Santana. I know I’m not the neatest person.”

“I don’t understand how your room is meticulous, but you do _this_ ,” Santana snaps, gesturing to the sink.

Kurt shrugs a little helplessly, “I don’t do it on purpose. I just _forget_ ,” he snaps back, beginning to get peevish.

“How can you forget when you go to get a glass of water and you can’t even get the cup under the faucet because of all the _shit_ in the sink? How do you not go, oh wait, those are _mine_?!”

“Stop it!” Rachel shouts, suds flying into the air as she slams her hands against the side of the sink. Her hands are red with the heat of the water, and her face is flushed and sweating lightly, “Both of you, stop it! _Yes_ , we are having problems with the house. If you haven’t noticed, I think I’m the only one who cleans the bathroom, which is currently _disgusting_ , I don’t understand how Santana and I are shedding so much, and _one of you_ is _constantly_ leaving globs of toothpaste in the sink, and the shower has _repulsive_ soap scum accumulating. We need to come up with a solution, but we need to do it _civilly_. I won’t have us ending friendships over chores!”

She’s nearly in tears, and Santana steps forward hesitantly, staring at Rachel’s hands. “I was never angry to the point of not wanting you guys in my _life_ ,” she mutters awkwardly.

Rachel grips the sink and heaves in a breath, “We’re all overreacting,” she intones dully, “Including me. I know our friendships aren’t actually ending, I’m just _scared_. We share such a small space, and finances, and that always complicates things.”

Santana sighs heavily, and says quietly, “We didn’t even know each other all that well before we all moved in together. I don’t know if that helped or hurt. But whatever, I mean, it turns out I kind of like you guys. I’ll still like you even if you trash the house.”

Kurt nods, “I have decided we are friends for life. Even if Rachel sings in the shower at way-too-early o’clock and Satan here clomps around the house and manages to brush her teeth more loudly than is humanly possible when she gets home from work. We can revisit the issue of keeping the house clean after your finals, Rachel. But for now…let me do this.” And he steps forward, taking her hand and moving it off the edge of the sink, bumping her hip with his until he’s the one in front of the sink, dropping in his plate and bowl, and then grimacing as he puts his hands into the hot water to bring up a plate.

After a moment, before Rachel and Santana have wandered away, he murmurs, “I’m sorry, though. I’ve been stressed out, too. I’m…not getting enough hours at work. I’m trying to pick up a second job, and that’s worrying me.” The way he purses his mouth and focuses on his task signals to them that he doesn’t want to talk any more about it, though, so the girls leave him to it.

Oddly enough, exploding at each other seems to help her nerves somewhat, and by the time she gets out of her second to last final on Thursday afternoon, she’s pretty calm about her Friday morning one. She heads home, skipping studying in the library; she no longer needs a room to sing in. She can study at home, keep it low-key.

Santana is off that evening, which if Rachel thinks about it, might be Santana’s first day off in about eight days. Ever since she got back for Thanksgiving, they keep offering her overtime, which she’s been happy to take. She’s excited to have money for Christmas.

Or at least, she was. She notices Santana is looking pretty sulky when she comes in. She’s barely seen her since their big blow-up on Tuesday, and she settles next to her on the couch, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Santana sighs heavily and sets her computer aside, crossing her arms. “Remember when I told you that apparently it was surprising I’d been able to take off for Thanksgiving because of blackout days on the schedule where no one is allowed to request time off? Well, now I know what it means. Christmas Eve through the day after Christmas are blacked out. I won’t be able to go home for Christmas.”

“What?! That is inhumane! I have half a mind to call the ACLU!”

Santana chuckles a little bit wearily, “Don’t bother, Berry. I mean, it’s unfortunately what I signed on for with retail work. The ACLU doesn’t really fight for laborers unless it’s actually against the law, and unfortunately this is well within the law.”

Rachel sighs, “I know, but…that’s awful. I’m so sorry. Would you like a hug?” she offers, which Santana accepts for a few moments before pulling away to fold her arms again. She’s composing herself, Rachel realizes, and she stands up with the excuse of getting some water to give Santana some space.

She goes into her room to study, to continue to give Santana space. Despite everything that has happened this week—the fight, Kurt’s admission that he’s broke, Santana’s despondence about Christmas, she is still a lot more relaxed than she had been earlier in the week, and slips into study mode fairly quickly. She turns on some low music—classical, actually, because the rumors that it helps with studying seem to actually be true for Rachel; though she doesn’t know if it helps her retain information, she knows that it helps drown out other sounds and that she doesn’t distract herself by singing along.

Her phone goes off, which startles her, and she frowns a little at the unfamiliar number. She doesn’t even know the area code. She’s about to just reject the call when it occurs to her that it could be a classmate with a question about the impending final, and she decides it would be rude not to help in this time of need.

“Rachel Berry speaking,” she answers.

“Rach?” The voice comes through the line, sounding echo-y and distant. Like he’s in an empty auditorium. Her breath hitches.

“Finn,” she struggles to keep her voice neutral.

“Hey,” he says warmly, and she squeezes her eyes shut. This can’t be happening. Her heart lurches.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because I miss you. I forgot to bring your number with me to basic training, but when I went home for Thanksgiving, I got it off of my old phone. And I wondered if you got my letters. I was hoping we could talk about what we want to do next.” That distant, spacious quality of sound manages to snap her back into focus, because it just emphasizes to her how far away he _is_ , physically…and emotionally.

“No, Finn, I have not received any of your letters. Like I told you, I had Santana and Kurt intercept them all and, I presume, destroy them.”

“You did?” he asks, the disappointment heavy in his voice, “Well, that’s okay. I can just tell you now. Rachel, I love you. So much. I just want another chance to make this work for us. You’re my inspiration, and I think about you every day. I’m trying to become a better man for you.”

She inhales deeply. They’re the kind of words she’s always wanted to hear from a handsome man who loves her, and they’re even more potent coming from his lips than from his pen, and she remembers, vividly, for a split second, how it feels to be held by him, to be engulfed in warm, strong and loving arms, to hear his heart beat beneath his ribs, to inhale the vaguely sharp scent of his body spray.

But that’s replaced instantly by flashes—him laughing when Santana insulted her, him curled on her bed next to her, lying to her face about his lack of virginity, the jolt of horror she’d feel every time he would take his frustration out on objects around him, his desperation and despair when he asked her to marry him, his blank face as he completely guilelessly drove her to the train station to break up with her, the imagined scene that she’s never been able to unsee of him attempting to yank Quinn out of her wheelchair…

“God, I can’t do this,” she states, trying for confident, but hearing desperation instead, “I really can’t. We’re over.”

“We’re not, though, because I love you and you still love me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Rachel, yes you do, you told me—”

“I do still have feelings for you. But I’m no longer in love with you. Because you’re…you told me we were done, and then came after me, and now you’re not respecting me or my wishes for some distance. And because one of the most basic components of love is trust, and I no longer have trust in you, especially after your subterfuge at the train station.”

“My…what?” At Rachel’s heavy, exasperated sigh, his voice changes, becoming hurt and slightly whiny, “Look, I’m sorry I don’t always understand the things you say. I know I’m not the smartest guy in the world, okay?” she can hear him inhale, and then murmur hollowly, “That didn’t used to matter to you.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes quietly, “But I’ve made my feelings perfectly clear. What are your feelings, Finn? I want you to think honestly, now. What is it about me that you love?”

“I…what? You’re awesome. And kinda sexy. Of course I love you.”

“I’m awesome. Anything else?” She’s sure he must hear the challenge in her voice.

“Well…yeah, I mean. Look, what is this about? I know I wasn’t always the best boyfriend, and maybe I didn’t tell you that you’re awesome enough, but you _are_. I think that all the time, and I’ll say it now, when I think it. You’re awesome.”

She sighs and quietly, but emphatically, states, “I appreciate you telling me that, but I don’t need to hear it right now. I’m sorry to inform you that we really are over. We just don’t _fit_ together anymore, you have to see that. Maybe one day we can be friends, but that’s all. I don’t want you contacting me until I tell you you can.”

There is silence for a few moments, until Finn mutters dully, “That’s it?”

“It’s been over for months now, Finn. Please,” she pleads, “for your sake, and mine, let this go. We’re no longer the same people. We’ve both been hanging on to what we want the other person to be, but those people are gone. Remember when you asked me if maybe I was just in love with the idea of you? I think…that’s all that’s left now. My feelings for what I wanted you to be.”

“I’ll always love you, Rach,” he pleads in return, but she hears the tentative goodbye in his voice.

She sucks in a breath, “I’ll always remember what it was like to love you and be loved by you,” is all she can offer.

After another few moments in which they just breathe on the line, he hangs up. She places her phone down delicately on her bedside table, surprised that her eyes are dry, surprised by how little she is actually feeling. She suspects she may be in shock. Or maybe she really did finish all her crying over Finn Hudson that night on Quinn’s shoulder in her bedroom in Lima. Still, she doesn’t want to be alone anymore, so she leaves her room to sit with Santana, only to find her entering the bedroom.

“Kurt texted. I’m gonna meet him at the subway station.”

“I’ll come with you,” Rachel offers. A walk will do her good right now.

Santana pulls on pants, a jacket and a baseball cap, while Rachel pulls back on her winter coat. Santana nods at her and they leave the apartment.

As they walk, the first snowfall of the season flutters slowly down from the sky, and to Rachel, it doesn’t feel like everything around her is dead and asleep. Maybe it’s because the city is always alive, no matter what the season. Maybe it’s because winter has always been _her_ season—when she was born.

Maybe that’s why the first snowfall feels like rebirth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from LP, “Into the Wild,” Animal Collective, “For Reverend Green,” Bat for Lashes, “Laura,” and La Roux, “Bulletproof.”
> 
> OC Guide:   
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, enjoys video games, introduced Quinn to her social circle  
> Steve: Stephanie's boyfriend, also a Yale student  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, possibly attracted to Quinn  
> Lulu: In Quinn's circle of Yale friends, lives in town


	19. You thought the leaden winter would bring you down forever

_You thought the leaden winter would bring you down forever_

 

She’s been trying so hard not to wallow, but it fucking _sucks_.

She calls her parents first, or really, her mom, and tells her dully that she won’t be home for Christmas. Her mother murmurs pained words, some of which Santana can’t even decipher whether they’re English or Spanish, so she feigns nonchalance as she tells her mother she’ll be fine and suggests they Skype or something on Christmas day. With a pained sigh, her mother agrees that it would be lovely and tells her she’ll send her Christmas presents to her as soon as she can.

The hard part is calling Brittany.

It’s around 5:30 when she calls. It’s Friday, and she works, but she’s awake enough, and Brittany should be home and showered after Cheerios practice by now, and it should be early enough that she won’t interrupt dinner.

“Hey, sweetie,” Brittany almost coos at her.

Santana’s lip twitches involuntarily, “Hey, Britt-Britt,” she quietly responds.

Instantly, Brittany can tell something is wrong. “San? Are you okay?”

She sighs raggedly and says, “I’m so sorry, Britt, but I’m not going to be able to come back to Lima for Christmas.”

“Oh,” Brittany says softly, then even quieter, “And my birthday?”

Santana squeezes her eyes shut. Brittany’s birthday is just a few days after Christmas, and obviously she knew she was missing it, but… “I’m so sorry,” she says again. She can’t afford to travel home by herself, and she can’t ask her parents for money to come down for Brittany’s birthday when she isn’t there to celebrate a holiday with them. She just can’t.

It feels like giving up, somehow, and it hurts to realize that the promise to see each other so soon is a lie.

Brittany whimpers in almost the exact same way she did when they’d first watched _The Lion King_ as kids and Mufasa had died, and Santana’s heart lurches, “I love you so much, baby,” she rambles desperately, “And I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’ll save money and come see you after New Years, I promise. I love and miss you so much.”

It feels almost like she’s trying to make sure Brittany doesn’t dump her on the spot, and she doesn’t even know why she’s afraid it’s going to happen. Brittany _loves_ her. She isn’t going to break up with her just because she can’t be with her for Christmas and her birthday.

“I know,” Brittany murmurs, her voice mostly steady, “I love you, too. I’ll just miss you. Christmas isn’t the same without you, and my birthday especially isn’t.”

It’s true. They’ve spent her birthday together every year for…god, the past nine years? Maybe even longer.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promises again.

“Okay,” Brittany says quietly.

They hang up after another minute and, wiping her eyes, Santana heads back out to the living room and turns on the TV and chooses a documentary about a Winnebago salesman, which somehow makes her laugh hysterically. It feels so wrong to be laughing that she turns it off and starts obsessively scrolling through pictures of Brittany on Facebook instead.

Just as she starts wondering if Kurt is holed up in his room, because she’s pretty sure he was supposed to have the day off today, she hears a key in the door.

She glances at the door as Kurt walks in, followed by Rachel, then does a double-take.

Kurt’s grinning at her, a little shyly, holding a little Christmas tree, no more than a foot and a half high.

“I thought maybe we’d bring Christmas to New York,” Kurt offers.

“I bought lights!” Rachel chirps from behind him, “And construction paper and string so we can make ornaments!”

It’s a real tree, Santana notices finally, and not a cut one either. Kurt’s actually supporting the bottom of it, which is in a plastic pot full of dirt. He takes it over and puts it kind of in front of both the entertainment center and the bookshelf, since there’s no space really between the two. Rachel hands him a big plastic disc, which Santana gets when she watches Kurt slide it under the pot to protect the floor.

“I…that’s awesome, guys,” Santana drawls, trying really hard to sound casual.

Kurt seems to decide to not take her deceit and tells her quietly, “Rachel told me about your work schedule. I’m so sorry.”

Santana forces a wry grin, “So let me guess, she dragged you off to go buy a tree to cheer me up?”

“No, that was Kurt’s idea,” Rachel pipes up.

Kurt side-eyes her and says, “Rachel paid for everything though, since I’m a little short on cash at the moment.”

“But Kurt decided on everything,” Rachel shoots back.

Santana chuckles once, “You guys are seriously each trying not to take responsibility for the attempt to cheer me up? I feel so loved.”

It’s highly sarcastic, which is meant to disguise how warm she feels that they’ve done this _for her_ , but they both seem to take it as a way to disguise her being hurt.

“Oh, sweetie,” Kurt says to her, and to her utter shock, she’s crying.

“Fuck,” she hisses out, trying to turn away from them, but when Kurt drops to his knees next to the couch to hug her, she clings desperately back. She feels the couch dip as Rachel sits next to her and strokes her hair, and she reaches an arm over to cling to Rachel, too.

She isn’t able to choke out a thank you, but when they finally pull apart and she reaches instantly for the construction paper, they seem to understand.

The first shapes she cuts out are a golden star and a white unicorn head.

 

_Maybe they’re seeing something we don’t_

 

It’s cold, but it’s not stopping them.

There had been flurries the previous two nights, which mostly hadn’t stuck to anything in town, but here, in the mountains, there are patches of snow beneath the trees. At least the trails are pretty clear.

Stephanie had begun the work of attempting to be on Yale’s radio station. They are pretty selective, but she has a good radio voice and seems to be quickly cultivating an ear for selecting songs that follow one another well. In the process, she’s befriended one of the advisors, a guy who completed his undergrad last spring named Rob.

Rob is short, probably an inch or so shorter than Quinn, with a beard and prematurely thinning curly dark hair. He’s well-dressed; even hiking, he’s wearing black slacks, a blue dress shirt, a black pea coat and newsboy cap, the only anomaly a pair of black sneakers. Stephanie had teased him about it, “You do know what nature is, right?” and Rob had responded that he pretty much just owned clothes like this and basketball shorts.

It’s a little weird to have him there, because the camaraderie between Quinn, her roommate, the boys and Lulu is pretty well-established by this point, but he seems to fit in well. He and Lulu (who, despite her boyfriend’s annoyance, is spending time with them this weekend) turn out to know a lot of the same people from Lulu’s parents having worked on campus and from Rob having been there for so long. And Steve turns out to be a secret basketball fan, and they discuss one of those basketball video games while Quinn and Stephanie roll their eyes.

The hike isn’t bad until the last maybe quarter mile, which is suddenly a lot steeper. Perhaps not surprisingly, Quinn and Rob end up at the front. Quinn’s muscles are sore, and she’s never really been used to the way hills work her legs, but she’s athletic and always persistent. Stephanie and Lulu are both kind of out of shape, and Sean claims he hasn’t walked this much since marching band in high school. Steve is pretty fit, but he’s hanging back with Stephanie, whose expression is pinched in annoyance.

Rob glances at Quinn as their paces match, and she grins at him. He smiles back, and it’s almost a competition suddenly—they’re both pushing themselves to keep going, and they make it to the overlook way before anyone else.

They puff and pant for a minute, both stripping off their coats despite the chilly air—noticeably colder, now that they’ve reached the top—and then Quinn groans, “Damn it, Stephanie has my backpack, which has my water.” She and Stephanie had tucked what they wanted to bring into one backpack and switched off with it for the duration of the hike.

“Here,” Rob offers his Gatorade from his bag, which he hasn’t even opened yet. She eyes him uncertainly, but the gesture seems entirely genuine, so she takes a gulp, propping the rim against her lip but trying not to touch it.

“Thanks,” she hands it back to him, and he nods, drinking some himself. Then, she groans again, “That damn backpack has my camera in it, too.” It’s really unfortunate, because even though there aren’t really any leaves still clinging to the trees, and the sky is just smudges of wintery gray, the overlook is beautiful; even the symmetrical squares of brown, tilled farmland, devoid of green at the moment, are something Quinn itches to photograph.

Rob stands next to her to watch the scenery, too, and smiles, “You and Stephanie make a great pair of roommates. I still can’t believe you didn’t know each other until this year.”

Quinn smiles faintly. Her friendship with Stephanie is rather effortless at this point; Stephanie teases, she rolls her eyes and teases back, Stephanie laughs at something, she shows Quinn and Quinn laughs, too. Stephanie brings another friend back to the dorm, or, in the case, hiking, and Quinn enjoys their company.

“Yeah, she’s pretty cool,” Quinn admits, “I lucked out in the roommate department, I guess. I thought I heard that it’s a rule that your first roommate sucks, but…”

Rob chuckles a little, “Yeah, I’ve gotta say, I know how that is. My first roommate was homophobic and anti-Semitic. It was great.”

Quinn winces, thinking unwillingly of her father, and then looks at Rob questioning, “Wait. Are you…?”

Rob grins, “Nah. Well, okay, one out of two. I’m Jewish, culturally, but straight. Still, arguing with my roommate about gay rights didn’t go well, and being straight didn’t do a thing to stop him from calling me the f-word.”

Quinn winces again, once it dawns on her which word he means, and for the first time, she’s really glad that she’s kept her cross under her clothes since she started school, if she’s even worn it at all—mostly because she hasn’t wanted to advertise _anything_ about herself, “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” Rob shrugs, “What can you do? You’re lucky Stephanie cares about you so much. I mean,” he chuckles, “Since she’s started training for the station, everyone has begun asking, ‘what would Quinn want to hear?’ even though they don’t _know_ you; they’ve just heard her say it enough. It’s our new catchphrase.”

Quinn’s stomach flips a little, because there’s something in the way he says it that makes her think that what she just asked _him_ could be returned right back to her.

She hears the footsteps approaching, and turns to banter. “About time you showed up!” she calls to the group, though it’s Stephanie who meets her eyes as she huffs, nearly at the top. Quinn walks over and reaches out a hand to help her up the last few feet of rock that leads to the overlook, which is slightly slippery (rolling her eyes when Steve appears to be too engrossed in a conversation with Sean to notice Stephanie’s sliding feet) and when Stephanie is in front of her, she cocks an eyebrow, “Care to share _my_ water with me?”

“Jesus, Quinn,” Stephanie pants, “ _So_ sorry my asthma was acting up.”

Quinn instantly feels awful, but Stephanie grins to stop her from apologizing and reaches into the backpack. “Here. Water, camera, and I packed you a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich.”

Quinn’s mouth drops open, “Seriously? You’re a gift from God.”

She chuckles, “Nutella’s that sacred to you, huh?”

The thought of “sacred” isn’t something she’s considered recently, but it’s not something she wants to dwell on right now, so she just grins and tucks herself back into her coat, sitting on the edge of it so she can eat and play with the settings on her camera.

When she takes pictures of everyone else at the summit, not only does she insist that Rob be in them, to his surprise, but she places Stephanie exactly in the middle.

And when Rob takes a picture with Quinn in it, he places her right between Steve and Stephanie.

 

_I’ve been denied all the best ultra sex_

 

For a little while, he’s actually elated to be back in New York, because even though he’s just working, and Blaine isn’t with him, he still loves it there. He loves the crowded, busy public transportation, the way no one around him spares him a glance as they bustle about their daily business—unless it’s to check him out. He loves the street performers and the subway musicians, the street salesmen with their thick accents or fumbling English. He loves that there are about five coffee shops within walking distance from his job and about six restaurants cheap and quick enough that he can grab something during his lunch break if he doesn’t take a lunch with him. He just loves the atmosphere of the city, and he’s proud to be there. It will be quite awhile until he begins to think of himself as a New Yorker (if he ever does at all, because he suspects it really is something one has to be born into) but he feels at home here.

He’s not without some regrets, though. His visit with Blaine could have been longer and could have gone better. When he’d arrived at home, he’d been too exhausted from all the driving to even think about sex and they’d fallen asleep together instead. They had spent Thanksgiving apart, both having family they’d wanted to catch up with; Cooper had been in town, and Blaine, though apprehensive, actually did want to spend some time with the brother he’d only recently made some kind of peace with, and Kurt had been quite eager to see Finn. Of course, Finn had been exceedingly distant, which had just made Kurt disappointed and a bit depressed, which of course only got worse the following day, after the wedding, in which he’d just cried in Blaine’s arms instead of making love to him.

So Saturday had been the day they’d really been able to spend together. Kurt had spent the morning with his father and Carole, chatting about things they hadn’t covered at the Thanksgiving dinner table, and Blaine had come over in the afternoon. Despite Blaine’s half-hearted suggestion that they watch the Iron Bowl on TV, they’d gone to get coffee and had wandered the mall a little bit, dropping Christmas hints and gathering ideas for friends, and when they’d gone back to Kurt’s house, the atmosphere between them had changed. They clearly both knew that if they were going to have sex during Kurt’s visit, it was going to have to be that night.

It is a problem that still hasn’t quite been resolved. When Kurt had mentioned it to Rachel toward the end of Senior year was probably the peak of the problem; during the summer, their sex life had gotten a little better, a bit more spontaneous, and they’d tried a few different things that they’d discovered they really liked, but generally, they’d had to stick to “sex dates” and other things that they both fretted they _and_ their relationship were much to young to have to resort to. They’d told themselves that they had to do what worked, and both tried to happily comply with the dates they’d set, but Kurt had a vague sense that the sex dates killed the mood a little bit.

It was that kind of pressure that had come upon them that Saturday night, and though it was clear they were both thinking about it, Kurt had pressed his boyfriend into the mattress and kissed him soundly, effectively catalyzing their encounter, and, to be fair, the sex had been both sweet and hot, but he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d be having it at all if he weren’t leaving the next morning.

But otherwise, their relationship is great; they clearly love each other, they laugh at the same jokes, they never fumble for conversation. Blaine still has the most beautiful eyes and the most kissable lips he’s ever seen on another guy, and though sometimes his outfits make Kurt smile in the indulgent way one smiles at a kindergartener just learning to dress himself (not because he dresses _badly_ per se, but because sometimes they remind Kurt of what he can remember of his grandfather), he has to admit that something about untying a bowtie turns him on.

Part of the reason he’d highlighted his hair so heavily is because he thought Blaine would like it (he’d been correct about that) and because he thought that making Blaine think about how good he is looking—running with Santana and lifting a few free weights in his room had continued to tone his body—that Blaine’s erotic attention will stay on him. Because he can’t help but worry that, with him gone, Blaine might lose some interest. He is _pretty_ sure Blaine won’t cheat, but he knows that he himself can’t help but check out guys in New York, and surmises that Blaine is probably doing the same in Lima, even with such slim pickings. And even though he feels ogling isn’t a huge offense, he doesn’t want to think about Blaine doing it.

Of course, some of his joy at being home in New York fades when he runs the numbers on his account and realizes that he will soon be in the negative, and then, being called a fag on the streets terrifies him. He still loves New York, he still hopes he can one day make it his true home, but their neighborhood, for all that their apartment is cute and they can _afford_ to live in it…he doesn’t love _this_ part of the city.

He forces himself to go out and put in some applications for other jobs, when he is off and in the mornings before afternoon work shifts start. With so little work experience—he really only has some time at his dad’s shop and his current job—he isn’t _that_ optimistic. Also the fact that he can probably only take on two more days, maybe three, without going insane is probably turning potential employers off. He is getting around four days a week at his current job, sometimes three. He is pretty sure he could work seven days a week _sometimes_ , but if he doesn’t occasionally have a day off, he’ll probably lose it. He aims for six days max, for now.

He puts on most of the applications that he can start after New Years, though. He is still planning to go home for Christmas, even after finding out that Santana won’t be able to go and so had asked his father to buy him a plane ticket—Rachel had done the same. He also figures that he will need that kind of time to try to settle his schedule with his first job to try to match the hours his new job has available. So he also isn’t extremely worried not to hear back right away from places, but he hopes he’ll hear back before he goes back to Lima.

Texting Rachel as a work shifts ends, he agrees to meet at her subway station after her last play rehearsal of the semester let out; it is optional, as it is on the Saturday after finals, but as this is Rachel, she refuses to miss it. He’s a lot more careful about walking through their neighborhood at night now. Since he’s been harassed, he’s actually been horrified to think about how frequently he and Rachel would just flounce through the streets alone at night. Rachel had been exceeding cautiously about going out into the city alone for the first month or so, Santana had told him, but by the time he had moved up, she had relaxed some. He now realizes what a mistake that could have been.

He takes the subway toward their apartment to get to Rachel’s school’s stop, and steps out. He paces around near the major entrance until he spots Rachel heading his way in her navy blue faux-wool winter coat. He slings an arm over her shoulder and they walk down the platform to get in the car that will drop them off near the exit of their stop; Kurt had taken to time to figure these things out.

And even though Santana is right, they are targets, they do feel a lot safer walking home together. Kurt’s a buffer for any sexual harassment Rachel might get, and Rachel is a buffer for crude language Kurt might get—the same kind of people who call him a faggot might pause at saying such things in front of a woman, in a strange and gross mix of misogyny and chivalry (though, he supposes one could argue that chivalry is a bit misogynistic anyway, and at this thought, he thinks unwillingly of Quinn, and smiles).

They walk into the apartment to find Santana, in uniform, finishing up a bowl of soup for dinner. She jerks her head up in greeting, but her eyes are still pretty sad, though, mitigated slightly by the tiny Christmas tree partially blocking the television.

“Gonna light your candles?” Santana asks Rachel in an attempt to have normal conversation.

Rachel smiles a little and heads to the menorah, explaining, “No, the last night of Hanukkah was last night. I really should put this away.” Santana just watches her with despondent eyes, but her eyes do flick toward the little Christmas tree and she smiles briefly.

Kurt hangs up his coat, and heads to the bedroom to take off his shoes. When he steps back out, intending to head to the kitchen to make some dinner, Rachel asks him to wait a minute. He steps back into the living room, arching an eyebrow. She has Santana’s attention as well.

“I know I requested you not to tell me if Finn writes, but the situation with him has changed. I think it now warrants that I need to know if he does, because I spoke to him two nights ago, and I think I have finally convinced him that we are over. I still don’t want to see the letters, but if I get any postmarked later than, say, today, I would like to be informed, because that implies that he really has not gotten the picture, and I shall have to take more drastic measures.”

Santana nods seriously, then stands and holds out her arms to Rachel, who isn’t looking upset, but Kurt knows she _can_ occasionally have a good poker face; it’s rare, but it’s happened, and the deliberateness of her last statement is evidence that she could be playing a role right now.

Rachel leans into the hug, but says quietly, “I’m okay, I promise. I’m just glad that it might be over. I think…I think I’m over him. He’s just not the same man I fell in love with.”

Nodding and stepping back, Santana states quietly, “I’m proud of you. I really do think you’re doing what’s best for you.” And Kurt can’t help but feel a burst of love in his chest for this Santana, the one who has let her guard down and let Rachel into her heart to this degree.

Rachel nods, smiling slightly, and looks at Kurt, who nods back, “It’s very good for both of you,” he agrees, walking over to hug her, because he is proud of her, too. “Santana and I are happy to help you out in any way we can.”

“Pretty boy can’t speak for me in general, but in this case, he’s right,” Santana grunts.

“Thank you both,” Rachel says quietly.

 

_Don’t tell me if you’re off to see the world, I know you won’t get very far_

 

It’s two days later that he actually has to follow through on that promise.

He and Santana check the mail on Monday and Tuesday, relieved to see Rachel doesn’t get any letters, even though they know that if Finn had sent any after the conversation, they probably won’t have arrived yet. Rachel seems to be in high spirits. Since her semester had ended, she’s been given more hours at the clothing store. She is getting about as many hours at Kurt now, and they’re scheduled for many of the same days upcoming, which is nice and should make coming home more comfortable.

He happens to have Tuesday off when Rachel works, though, and spends most of his day inside, watching snow flurries come down. They don’t seem to be sticking, and so far he is pretty unimpressed with this New York winter. The fall had been almost as dry as the summer, aside from a few storms, and everyone kept claiming they were supposed to have a rough winter. He supposes it hasn’t even really begun though.

At around eight, his phone blares Blondie as an unfamiliar number lights up his display. He frowns, and Santana gazes at it with a quirked eyebrow. He shrugs, natural curiosity getting the better of him, as well as the vague hope that it’s someone calling about a job, and he answers it as he heads to his room so he can make sure he can hear over the _Bad Girls Club_ episode they’ve been streaming from Youtube.

“Hello?” he answers cautiously, trying to make his voice a little lower so that if it’s a wrong number, he won’t get a “sorry, ma’am.” That drives him nuts.

“Kurt?” a familiar voice asks, though he’s never heard it sound as though it’s coming at him through a conch shell.

“Finn?” he responds, “Is that you?”

“Yeah!” Finn answers, a little enthusiastically now, “Man, it’s good to hear your voice.”

Kurt bites his lip, because Finn had just heard his voice several weeks ago, and could have heard it more if he hadn’t been caught up in this scheme to get Rachel back.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Kurt asks, aware that he must sound a little cold.

“Well,” Finn drawls, sounding a little anxious now, “It’s, um. I need some advice.”

“Oh,” Kurt doesn’t bother to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Of course Finn didn’t call just to chat or because he misses him. “How can I help you?”

“Well, I just had a guy in my unit come out. You know, ‘cause gay soldiers can serve openly now and all that. And I mean, I know I really fucked up with you in that way, and I don’t want to screw up again, so like…how can I not be rude?”

Kurt aches to just snap, “don’t call him faggy,” and just hang up, because thinking about that _still_ hurt, after everything, but he takes a breath and reigns it in. “Well, I understand you calling and asking. It shows you’re _trying_ to learn, and I applaud that. But, Finn, you know the answer to this. You don’t treat him any differently. You treat him just like everybody else. He’s still the same guy. He’s still a soldier. He still has a lot of the same goals and desires you do. He wants to succeed in your program and be a good soldier and it just so happens that maybe someday he wants to build a slightly different family than the one you want. That’s it.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Finn sighs, “I just, you know, wanted to make sure. ‘Cause you know I really am sorry about that, right?”

“I know,” Kurt quietly admits. He pauses, then says, “But you know, it’s really not me that you messed up with.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Santana. You’re a little bit homophobic,” he starts.

“I am not!” Finn vehemently defends, “I love you, man, you’re my brother!”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Kurt snaps, though he is undeniably warmed by the way Finn had said it, completely without reservation, “I know you do. But what you did to Santana, and the fact you’re calling me _now_ all nervous because someone you work with is _gay_ …Finn, you really, really need to work on this.”

“What do you mean about Santana, though?” he sounds genuinely puzzled, and Kurt feels slight satisfaction in the fact that he doesn’t refute anything else; maybe he is getting through to him. He pushes on, letting a bit of old frustration surface.

“You outed her! I know you didn’t mean to get her on TV all over the state, but you did, because you were careless and blurted her secret in public where anyone could hear you! It doesn’t matter that it was barely a secret, and it doesn’t matter that she forgave you! That was despicable, and wrong, and only barely less awful than when you called me faggy! David Karofsky was _horrendous_ to me for _years_ and I kept his secret, I was the first person to know he was gay, and I only told Blaine, because it always needs to be someone’s choice! You took that choice from Santana, and the only reason I forgave you and never said anything was because I really didn’t think you knew better and because I was pretty wrapped up in my own NYADA-dreaming world. But your manipulation of Rachel has forced me to reconsider. I think you did know better. And what you did was disgusting.”

There’s silence for a few seconds, as Kurt hopes that what he’s said is sinking in, and then he says, “I also know that’s not the real reason you called.”

“What do you mean?” Finn says quickly, too quickly. His voice is verging on desperate now.

“I talk to Rachel, too, you know,” Kurt peevishly replies.

Finn sighs heavily, “Look, I just…it’s not fair. I want to be with her again. Can you just—”

“No,” Kurt cuts him off, “Whatever it is you want me to do, I’m not going to do it. You know why?” Finn tries to say something at this point, but Kurt just rushes on, “Because I’m glad you two are broken up. I tried to tell you both that I really thought you needed to be apart and grow as people, and now that you’ve started to do so, I can see that you don’t fit. Especially because of the fact that you want to make the military your career.”

“How do you—”

“I talk to Dad, too, you know,” Kurt says, echoing the same intonations as the last time he used the phrase in a theatrical flair. “He told me about that conversation, where you were so excited about the mechanical engineering you’re learning, and how you think you’re going to make the military your career and maybe when you retire take over the auto shop if it still exists, or start your own. And those are good goals, Finn. But think about it for just a minute. Rachel is _not_ a military wife. She’ll never _be_ a military wife, and it would be criminal of you to ask her to give up her aspirations to follow you around the world. And it would be criminal of her to make you stay in New York, where you can’t easily do _either_ of the things you want right now, and where you would hate how crowded and busy it is. And given that neither of these things are likely to change for _years_ , there is absolutely no reason for you to be together long distance. It just doesn’t work, Finn. Give up.”

“I mean…I don’t _have_ to do the military—”

“Don’t you get that you do? I’m so proud of you for finally figuring out what you want to do. You’re doing something brave and bold and not something I could do in a million years. You need to stick with it.”

Finn is silent for awhile. “I…yeah, I guess.”

Kurt nods, “You’re not a bad person,” he lets his voice go soft for a moment, “and I’ll always be your brother. But you need to grow from this. You need to have goals, you need to seek people who you are compatible with, long term, and you need to really sit down and work out your homophobia. But you’re not a lost cause. You have a good heart. You just need to use your head sometimes.”

Finn laughs weakly, and it sounds like he might be crying, which makes Kurt bite his lip hard, “My head doesn’t work real well most of the time.”

Kurt’s laugh mirrors his brother’s, “If you’re learning to reconstruct motors and engines and whatever, I think it must work pretty okay. Believe in yourself.”

“Okay. I…thanks, I think, Kurt. I think you’re right.”

“You’re welcome, Finn, and I am right. And I love you.”

Finn hesitates, because Kurt has never spoken the words with quite this much sincerity and seriousness, but he finally chokes out, “Love you too. You’re amazing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Cream, “Tales of Brave Ulysses,” Bonnie Raitt, “Something to Talk About,” Mindless Self Indulgence, “Faggot,” and The Dresden Dolls, “The Jeep Song.” Kurt’s ringtone I can’t decide between Blondie’s “Call Me” or “Hanging on the Telephone,” so whichever.
> 
> Thanks to everyone still sticking with me through 100,000 Words of the Death of Finchel. I hope you know I didn’t do it to torture you; it was my attempt to respect Rachel’s feelings for Finn (and, in a way, Finn’s for Rachel). Their individual personalities and faults as well as their dynamic together made it so that I knew the abrupt way Season 3 left them could not have been a satisfying ending of their relationship for me.
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, drew her into her social circle, confides in Quinn  
> Steve: Stephanie's boyfriend, also a Yale student, Stephanie is mildly frustrated with him because he is acting lazy  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, Quinn's friend, interested in studying Chemistry, they eat lunch together a few times a week  
> Lulu: In Quinn's circle of friends, lives in town, has a boyfriend Stephanie does not like  
> Rob: Introduced this chapter


	20. Become undone from impedious pounding ideas

_Become undone from impedious pounding ideas_

 

This is what it had been like.

Thanksgiving over. Missing Mike. Dabbing beneath her eyes lightly with a tissue, trying not to smear her eyeliner; really, she should have just skipped some of her makeup that day, it was just a _bad_ idea…

And Brittany approaching, looking almost as despondent as she feels. She’s clutching her History book to her chest and gives Tina a sad smile. “Hey,” she greets dully.

“Hey, Britt,” Tina responds, and automatically leans over to hug her. Brittany accepts with a happy hum, and when Tina pulls away, she’s smiling a little.

“You were right,” Brittany says with a nod.

She knows her expression must be puzzled, which is not surprising, given all the non-sequiturs Brittany tends to spit out. She’s usually better at masking her expressions around her friend, though. “What do you mean?”

“About Artie,” Brittany shrugs, “When we talked this summer. You told me I should talk to San about how she was feeling about Artie. I didn’t. And she found out he’s tutoring me, too, and she got hurt.” She shrugs a little bit helplessly, “You were right,” she repeats.

“Are you guys okay?” Tina asks, a bit wild with concern.

“Yeah. I think,” Brittany twists her mouth, “We said it was really hard to be away from each other. We might let each other make out with other people when it gets too hard.” Brittany’s expression changes to a slight smirk. Perhaps a little forced.

Tina’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? You’ve…you’re in an open relationship?”

Brittany shrugs, “Sort of, I guess. We both can only kiss girls. But obviously we only love each other.”

The school bell rings, and they start walking toward class, which is at least in the same direction. “It was good to see Mike,” Brittany offers, “How is he doing?”

“He seems to be doing really well. Obviously we miss each other, but he’s happy at school.”

Brittany nods a little bit, then asks, “Is it okay if I call him sometime? I want to ask him about applying to dance school.”

“Of course!” Tina assures immediately, “I’m sure he’d love to help you. And since I’m _sure_ you’ll be graduating this year, it would be good for you to start applying.”

Tina thinks about how it has never bothered her that Brittany and Mike used to date, sort of. Except for that one time when Artie’s paranoia had gotten to her, but she thinks that was partially motivated by her own guilt for getting together with Mike when she was still seeing Artie—that whole once a cheater, always a cheater thing. And then she remembers what had happened in bed with Mike before Thanksgiving, and heat washes over her face.

Brittany’s one of her closest friends at McKinley right now, and Mike’s out there surrounded by women who are convinced he should be trying to have orgies with them, and Brittany and Santana seem to have surrendered to the distance and agreed to allow little dalliances, and _what_ is even happening in her mind, she’s in love with her boyfriend, she’s really only _wanted_ to be with boys, it’s just…

She glances at Brittany, intending to ask her how her talk opening up her relationship went, but then stops. Brittany is sweet, but has a tendency to not _quite_ grasp secrets that aren’t hers. She can’t.

But when she gets home, she sees that Mercedes has listed herself as “in an Open Relationship,” and _that’s_ interesting…

She ends up texting Mercedes later that week, and that evening, she gets a call.

“Hey, girl,” greets Mercedes warmly, “How are you?”

“I’m good!” Tina responds happily. And they saw each other quite recently, and her text made it kind of obvious she is calling for a reason.

“So, ask me,” Mercedes implores, laughter in her tone.

Tina chuckles, “Alright, yeah, of course everyone is talking about your new open relationship—with Sam, right?”

“Naturally,” Mercedes answers easily.

“So how did _that_ happen?” Tina asks.

Mercedes is quiet a moment, and then says, “Well, we realized that even if we weren’t calling ourselves a couple, that we pretty much were one. Being far away didn’t change our feelings.” Tina nods, seeing the logic in that, but Mercedes seems to be stopping there.

“Okay, that explains the ‘relationship’ part…” Tina trails off.

“He still wants me to date, you know, get some experience with relationships, however casual,” Mercedes answers.

“So…he wants it open? He’s okay with it?”

“Oh, he’s more than okay with it,” Mercedes answers, and then changes the subject, but there’s _something_ in her voice that Tina can’t quite interpret, but…okay, so, Sam is the one who wanted it that way, and her questions don’t seem to be getting to how he _asked_ and got Mercedes to _agree_.

She isn’t about to ask Sam, though, and so for the time being, she decides to just let things go.

For God’s sake, she doesn’t even really know if she _wants_ anything. Little twinges of feeling for Brittany don’t necessarily _mean_ anything. It’s like how she and Mercedes always seemed to cling to each other when they drank; it was just _nice_ to hold on to a girl for awhile. It wasn’t anything sexual.

She decides she’s being ridiculous and just plain weird. She can’t exactly ask Mike for permission to open things up in general, because of Artie, but she isn’t going to say she wants to do it on the off-chance that Brittany wants to make out.

She really needs to get her head straight. Thank goodness midterms are coming up.

That’s what it had been like. The real genesis of these strange and wild thoughts that, weeks later, aren’t leaving her alone.

 

_City, it’s a pity, half of ya’ll won’t make it_

 

Quinn’s Finals week ends in the middle of a week, actually on Rachel’s birthday, which is weird, but then, Kurt thinks, most of Yale’s schedule is strange. What even was that Reading Period thing? She comes to New York as soon as her Tuesday morning final is over, intending to spend a few days with them celebrating Rachel’s birthday until the weekend, when they all fly home for Christmas, except for poor Santana.

Rachel, Kurt and Santana all manage to take off work for Rachel’s birthday. She’s ecstatic all day; Santana reports that she came home close to 7 to find Rachel vigorously working out on the elliptical, and when Kurt wakes up around 8 for no good reason, she is only just getting into the shower. Still, an apparently hour-long workout doesn’t appear to tamp down Rachel’s manic energy at all, and she isn’t able sit still until she is meant to go meet Quinn at the train station at around 2.

By that point, Santana is just getting up, trying to smile as Rachel bounces around the apartment. She and Kurt had tried to figure out a good way to celebrate, but birthdays were really Rachel’s talent. They figure they can do takeout and cake again, and maybe go out if everyone feels up for it. Santana had asked Rachel if she wanted to invite anyone from school, but she’d just waved a hand and said most of them were already home for Christmas break.

Kurt wishes Rachel’s birthday came at a different time, because he is honestly pretty preoccupied, what with his job and financial stress. But he thinks they manage to have a good time. By the time Rachel comes back with Quinn, there are fat snowflakes falling, which seems to only improve Rachel’s mood, if that were at all possible. They get Thai delivered, even though Rachel stares out the window and frets about the well-being of the driver because the snow is actually sticking, but of course, the city takes care of its roads in the winter, and it’s not a _blizzard_ or anything, so the food gets to them just fine.

They get a cake, though not an erotic one this time; it had been surprisingly expensive the last time to get a breast cake that was also vegan, and they decided to go a slightly cheaper route to find a vegan cake for Rachel’s birthday. They decide on a white cake with strawberry icing and little gelatin-free lemon stars on top. Rachel seems exceptionally pleased with this, and with the prospect of actually blowing out candles.

“Yeah, we almost got you a dick cake, ‘cause, you know, you’re _legal_ now,” Santana lies blithely, and Kurt notes Rachel’s face wrinkles with distaste through her laughter “since you all sucked on some tits for my birthday, and Kurt was, like, salivating at the thought.” He elbows her hard, glaring and blushing because it’s _not_ even true, and Rachel laughs more, “But, ya know, honestly, I don’t care if I’m the only one here not into them, I had to make the cake order, and I kicked my pole smoking habit a couple years ago, so…”

“I appreciate this cake much more, thank you Santana,” Rachel gushes, swiping a bit of icing off and licking her finger, “I want my celebration to be something everyone can enjoy.”

“I agree, besides, this cake screams Rachel much more than a penis would,” Quinn agrees, then her face twists, “Which is a really disturbing image, sorry about that.” Santana groans, and Rachel looks horrified, but it soon dissolves into laughter all around.

He gives her an outfit he’d bought at H&M, a store that has grown on him some now that he has a smaller budget for clothes. He likes the inexpensive European fashion and the sizes that fit his frame well, and Santana turns out to like the men’s pants that are cut small enough to look feminine on her frame, which he, of course, gives her hell about. Rachel seems to love the black skirt with decorative buttons and black and cream striped top he picked out, to his relief. Santana gives her a copy of _Victor/Victoria_ , which he knows can be difficult to find for a reasonable price.

She’s sent a few gifts, too, the most notable being from Puck, who sends her an array of underwear and lingerie. Rachel blushes hotly upon opening the gift, murmuring, “Oh my _God_!” Santana attempts to stifle laughter behind her hands, and Rachel breathes in and builds up the courage to check the tag on an item. Her eyes bulge, “It’s my size!”

Santana loses it at this point.

Quinn gets it first, “Oh my God, Santana, did you send Puck Rachel’s _underwear size_!?”

Santana’s continued peals of laughter are answer enough. Quinn glares the death glare Kurt doesn’t think he’s seen for years now, but Santana seems totally immune and Rachel just looks amused.

Quinn, though, gives her an envelope, which she opens to pull out a slip of thick paper. “Quinn!” she shouts, and she sounds almost angry, and the way she lunges for the blonde, Kurt thinks she might be about to shove her, but instead Quinn is tackled with a hug, “You can’t keep buying these for me!” she murmurs fervently.

Kurt and Santana exchange an intrigued glance, and he picks up the rectangle of cardstock to see it’s another Metro-North pass. He remembers Rachel’s exuberance when she’d gotten the first one; she’d gushed about it just before they’d gotten their NYADA letters and that awkward silence had fallen over them for a little while. He smirks at Santana, who rolls her eyes and grunt sarcastically, “Overshadowed again by Fabray. Story of my life.” Rachel detaches herself from Quinn to throw herself at Santana on hearing this, which makes Santana growl, “Hey, what the fuck, Berry!” Rachel laughs, and hugs Kurt, too.

They decide to stay in, mostly because of the snow, though Rachel insists they go out onto the sidewalk to enjoy it some. She dances and twirls in her coat, and Quinn snaps pictures and Santana laughs with her, but Kurt just feels very tired. When Rachel asks to watch _Funny Girl_ , he can’t even get suitably excited, and he doesn’t even cry at the end (Rachel sobs unabashedly, Santana glares with the obvious effort of not crying, and Quinn’s eyes shine sympathetically as she watches Rachel), and Kurt doesn’t remember until 3 that he should really go to sleep because he has to wake up at 8 to go to work.

Occasional insomnia really is a bitch.

The rest of the week passes quickly because he works and he ends up getting two job interviews, which is really quite a relief. But he likes coming home to find Quinn sitting with Santana and actually making her laugh, and waking up in the morning to see Rachel and Quinn sitting close to each other on the couch as they watch _Ally McBeal_ , sharing a blanket and both enjoying cups of coffee or tea (because Rachel still isn’t a regular coffee drinker).

Though, since she’d gotten there, Quinn’s phone hasn’t shut the hell up. She’s getting so many texts that it’s getting difficult to miss the flashes of annoyance crossing her features, until Thursday, when Santana is off and he and Rachel are home from work, and they’re enjoying some frozen pizza in the living room.

Quinn phone sings, and she reaches quickly to answer it. Santana glances at Kurt, who shrugs, and her expression turns mischievous, “Who has been texting you all damn week, Fabray? Are you finally getting some action?”

Quinn rolls her eyes, “No, it’s my roommate. It turns out she misses me and is _apparently_ a clingy bitch. Who knew?”

Santana snorts disbelievingly, and Rachel turns to Quinn, trepidation in her eyes, “Like me?” she asks in a small voice.

Quinn turns to her quickly, “ _No_. What? Of course not. You’re not clingy.”

“I can be,” Rachel responds uncertainly.

Quinn sighs, and at this point, no one’s really paying attention to the episode of _Buffy_ onscreen, which is fine, because season 4 only has a couple episodes left, and the big bad is really not that interesting, nor is the overarching plotline, so Kurt is just ready to move on to the next season, which Quinn has assured them is much better. “No, Rachel, it’s very different. You and I stay in contact a lot when we’re apart, but it’s different, because it’s a dialogue. You ask questions about how I am and what I’m up to and listen. Stephanie…well, she’s been a good friend to me, but she’s not the most…attentive or sympathetic person I’ve ever met. She keeps in touch to make fun of me or tell me what she’s up to, then ends it by telling me she misses me, just to give her an excuse to bother me. Does that make sense? In the most simplistic, general sense, you keep in touch with me because you want to know how I’m doing, she keeps in touch with me because she wants me to know what she’s doing.”

Kurt sees Santana’s brow furrowing, and she looks a little hurt by this assessment of Stephanie, and maybe it’s the whole not the most sympathetic person bit, because that _could_ describe Santana, too, at least _sometimes_. But the explanation seems to satisfy Rachel, who gives Quinn a sideways hug and murmurs, “I like listening to you.” Quinn just looks relieved, and shuts off her phone.

Thankfully, the day before they leave, Kurt gets offered a job. Apparently, he is friendly and engaging enough that a restaurant thinks he would make a good server, which is troubling, because _he_ knows that this “customer service” persona he’s cultivated at the clothing store is a role he plays more than a natural disposition toward friendliness. He can be pretty snarky at work, but generally people either don’t realize they’re being mocked or they find it charming—gay privilege, he supposes. Nevertheless, they intend to start him out bussing while they train him, which will happen when he gets back after Christmas, and they need weekday help, which, thankfully, is when Kurt’s schedule is most open. He’s optimistic about being able to make enough money.

Saturday morning, they wake up early to go catch their flight. Santana just stays up, delaying her bedtime to see them off, huddled onto the couch with exhausted and despondent eyes. A laptop bag and an overhead luggage bag apiece, they prepare to head back to Lima. Santana forces a smile and gives them each a hug, without any of the playful reluctance that sometimes accompanies her hugs.

Settling into the seat on the plane that will take them to their layover in Baltimore—he has the window seat, Quinn the aisle, with Rachel between them—he accepts with a smile the piece of gum Quinn offers him, but then lays his head back.

It feels so odd to be going back to Lima again. But at the same time, he’s frustrated with himself in New York. He’s so focused on making enough money to survive, he’s barely been paying attention to any off-Broadway auditions that might be appropriate for his various talents. He hasn’t made any effort to re-apply for NYADA.

It’s true, though, that there are things he likes about his job. He likes the clothes, he likes seeing what kind of labels come in, what people buy, what they will pay for used designer clothes. He’s gotten good at assessing what sizes people wear just by scanning them, had gotten better at judging which cuts and styles will compliment different people’s frames. And selecting clothes for everyone from skinny hipster boys to middle-aged female professionals certainly broadens his fashion knowledge. He also enjoys getting the first pick of clothes that come in, at an employee discount. And though generally he doesn’t think he’s that great with customers, he does occasionally like talking to people about clothes and style and fashion; there are a few regular customers that he always has good conversations with.

He knows he’s lucky to generally like his job. They like him, too, and continue to train him to do different things, all over the store. But he worries that he’s losing focus. He’s in New York to perform, damn it!

He sighs and stares out the window as the plane ascends. He watches the New York skyline shrink until it’s obscured by clouds, and tries to look forward to Christmas, and Blaine.

He can deal with his future after the New Year.

 

_And they’ll be rainbows and we will finally know_

 

Brittany grins as she sidles up next to Artie in the hall with a “hey.” He gives her a smile and greeting of his own. Their classes are next door to each other and she usually accompanies him to his locker during this time. It’s just a chance to make small talk during the day, and Brittany likes to make sure she has a lot of those. It keeps her from getting bored and just wandering the halls between classes, because sometimes, if she does that, she’ll get caught up in wandering and forget to go to her next class.

They pass Blaine going the other direction, also typical for the day’s schedule, and Blaine catches Brittany’s eye and grins, drawing his finger in an arch beneath his right eye. Brittany chuckles happily and repeats the gesture.

Artie notices, “What was that?” he asks.

Brittany draws herself up pompously, “I am not permitted to divulge that information.”

Artie just side-eyes her for a few moments, making that face he used to make when they were dating and he wasn’t sure what to say, but then he shakes his head and turns toward his locker.

Brittany leans beside him with a self-satisfied little grin. She’s always wanted to say something like that.

She and Blaine had talked the other week and, somewhat by chance, both stumbled onto the idea that they were kind of acting as mentors for recently out gay kids. Or well, they were intending to anyway. Blaine had been hanging out with Karofsky some since Homecoming; they’d get coffee and chat every once in awhile. And Brittany talks to Merry in the halls when she gets a chance, but she hasn’t done as much mentoring as she’d intended yet.

So Blaine had offered up the idea of hanging out all together sometimes, and Brittany had excitedly suggested it could be like a gay secret society—never mind that she supposes she’s bisexual (labels don’t always make sense to her, but this seems the best one). Blaine had sort of faltered at that point, but then agreed, and had let an eager Brittany make up secret signals and handshakes. She’d always wanted to be part of something like that, and drawing a rainbow under the right eye had been the first thing she came up with.

They’d had coffee with Karofsky and Merry the previous week; Karofsky seemed to think the secret signals and handshakes were kind of stupid, but at Blaine’s pointed look, had played along. Merry had overall seemed to think it was fun, and really, the other girl had just seemed happy to be part of something. And even though Merry and Karofsky were just awkward around each other, unable to find much common ground, and Merry had seemed weirded out when Brittany had discussed hot guys with Karofsky and Blaine, she and Blaine had declared the gay secret society meeting a success. Because when it came down to it, at the end of the meeting, both Karofsky and Merry had agreed that it had been nice to talk to someone who was also struggling with coming out.

Most exciting, though, was the fact that Karofsky had asked Blaine to come to the gay bar with him sometime in the New Year. Though Merry had backed out uncomfortably, Brittany had jubilantly invited herself along, surprisingly, to Karofsky’s relief—he wanted a lot of company, plus, she’s always wanted to go there. So the gay secret society had the mission to make sure they had the proper fake identification to be able to get into the bar, and Brittany can’t be more excited about this kind of covert operation.

But as she walks down the hall with Artie, who is finished at his locker, her thoughts turn again to Santana, where they’ve been dwelling for weeks now. She’s mildly frustrated that Santana feels threatened by her friendship with Artie—because, really, didn’t Santana realize that even when she loved Artie, she’d also loved Santana? Brittany just wishes she could be friends with whoever she wants, and at the same time, she wishes Santana could be here, because maybe if she were here, she’d be okay with Brittany being friends with everyone, and Brittany thinks that she would have a lot of fun with the gay secret society. They’d already played covert ops in the janitor’s closet hundreds of times…

Artie turns at the end of the hall to take the elevator to his next class, waving, while Brittany continues on toward the library. Her thoughts stay on Santana, and how it’s somehow harder, now that they’ve seen each other so recently, for her to let Santana go, again. The idea that she can make out with other girls is there, now, but she’s not entirely sure she _wants_ to. She thinks she’d kind of feel bad if she were kissing a girl but imagining Santana’s dark eyes, blazing with arousal, imagining her soft lips and strong hands and intricate rolling tongue and her caramel skin that’s so sweet she swears Santana sweats sugar, not salt.

She lets the little shiver of arousal cascade down her back, relishing it, before thinking of the matter at hand. She’s always been good at finding the bicurious girls, or at least finding out at what point of drunkenness they _became_ bicurious—that’s how she’d managed to make out with almost everyone at school—but she doesn’t really _want_ to _need_ someone else to make her feel good.

But how else is she going to deal with the distance?

She hopes focusing on school, and maybe standing by Merry as she works through being so freaking _young_ …will help.

For now, though, she’s off for a lunchtime study session with Tina at the library, and that itself puts a bounce in her step. Tina’s the best.

 

_Just like my daughter won’t see her again_

 

It used to be her favorite holiday. She had loved watching her mother get even more dressed up than usual, had loved getting a new dress every year for the occasion (she always felt pretty in a dress, they never pinched her flesh like pants, which her mother always seemed to buy a size too small), had loved watching her father pull on his grandfather’s raccoon skin coat and smile lovingly, taking Judy’s arm as the family walked out into the crisp, cold winter night. As a child, she was only allowed to stay up this late on Christmas Eve, for the midnight service, which was always hauntingly beautiful. The sanctuary would be dimly lit, and everyone would be given a candle as they walked in, and at one point, all the lights would go down, and the candles would be lit from one end of the pews to the other, and in that dim, flickering light, they would all sing “Silent Night,” completely a capella, and every time, Lucy would feel a tingling in her scalp and a pressure in her chest and the absolute assurance that God was watching over her, and she would cry quietly.

The celebration and presents the next day only added to her joy. Her mother would cook a huge breakfast, with ham, hash browns, sausage and egg casserole, bacon, grapefruit and toast. Lucy would even be allowed a cup of coffee on Christmas morning—just like her daddy—which she would turn beige with milk and sugar. Frannie would be more friendly than usual, sharing hugs with Lucy, and when she was old enough to get an allowance, she would always make sure to buy Lucy a present. Lucy would feel guilty that she didn’t have the money to buy Frannie a present in return, but the hugs and sometimes kisses planted on her forehead would make her feel happy to be the baby of such a loving family. At least for one day.

By the time she became Quinn, she had realized that the extra affection her father showed her mother followed a pattern. It came out in public or in the evenings several drinks in. It was theatrical somehow, like they were acting out a healthy marriage. They even put on the show in front of her and Frannie sometimes, but it didn’t feel genuine anymore. Quinn thought she was just cynical for years, until her father’s affair came to light. And for the first time, she had noticed her mother’s fatigue as they stayed up until one in the morning to go to church and she then rose at five to begin to prepare the elaborate breakfast for her family. By that time, Frannie had begun to resent her some, and even though they both got allowances and bought each other Christmas presents, there were no hugs, and certainly no kisses on the forehead. Even the church service itself had started to feel repetitive, and dry, and the candlelit hymn, though still beautiful, failed to fill her with a sense of awe and wonder. She would clutch her little cross and wonder if God had forsaken her.

Now, Quinn’s family is fractured, or, as she likes to think of it, downsized, with the members that had been a waste of time and energy excised. Frannie and her family are spending Christmas Eve and morning with Russell, and then coming by in the late morning or early afternoon for brunch with Quinn and her mother. Quinn has no intention at all of seeing her father, nor does Judy.

Judy asks if she’d like to go to the midnight service at their new church, and Quinn bites her lip. They’d gone the last year, and it was quite similar to the service she’d grown up with, but again, she felt as thought it lacked the magic of her childhood. Maybe faith would never again be so mystical, she reflects. “We don’t have to,” she tells her mother, “We can just go to the earlier one. And sleep in tomorrow.” She offers a mild smile, “Let’s relax for once, and I’ll help you with brunch when we wake up.”

Smiling gratefully, her mother offers a rare, spontaneous hug, which Quinn accepts with some surprise.

The Methodist service is lovely, though the feeling of distance from God remains. She texts Sam that afternoon to ask if he’ll be there, but he’s in Kentucky visiting his family for the holiday, which makes her smile. She’s glad he’ll get to spend some time with them. He says he’ll be back a couple days after Christmas because he wants to spend some quality time with the Hudson-Hummels while Finn is still in town and she responds that she looks forward to seeing him then.

She wonders, briefly, what others are doing. God, she hopes Santana has someone who can take her in for Christmas. No one should be alone on Christmas. Brittany, as far as she knows, actually knows there is no Santa now, but is playing along for her little sister, who, Quinn thinks, is starting to get a little old to believe herself. She tells the Dutch story of Santa, in which he is accompanied by an uncertain number of black men—or was it assorted rainbow-colored midgets?—rather than elves. Brittany’s parents were Unitarians or something and the way they approach holidays is why, Quinn thinks, Brittany believed in Santa for so long; her parents told the kids the story of Santa in the same way they told the story of the birth of Jesus, and when Brittany realized some people believed the Jesus story to be true, she decided the Santa one could be as well, since there was certainly more evidence for it. Quinn had discussed with Brittany several days ago when they might spend some time together, but Brittany had been very vague about her family’s plans after Christmas, so nothing was solid there. Rachel celebrates a largely secular Christmas with her fathers, though her daddy tends to go to a Christmas Eve service. She’s attended with him a few times, just to see what it’s like. Then, they visit some of her daddy’s family for a few days. Puck’s family’s celebration is entirely secular; they exchange few presents, since most gift-giving happens during Hanukkah, but it’s nice, because his mother sometimes actually has the day off for Christmas. Mercedes sings with her church choir throughout all the Christmas services, and in the afternoon of Christmas Day, they get together with her mom’s side of the family in Cleveland.

She wakes up around nine; even though she’d told her mother they should sleep in, she’d set an alarm, because she wants to make sure she is awake to help out, and as a college student, she knows she is capable of sleeping until the afternoon. Downstairs, her mother is in a bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a towel, brewing coffee. Quinn smiles at the realization that her mother _definitely_ slept in.

Through the years, she’s gotten very good at assisting her mother in cooking, and this brunch is no different. She stands by, ready to stir, or chop, or watch, or flip, or check, whatever her mother needs. She’s cooking a similar meal to the one from childhood—a similar omelette casserole, a small ham that’s dressed more like a dinner ham than breakfast ham, bacon, fruit salad, rolls. And though the thought that she was trained to feel like she belongs in a kitchen _does_ bother her, this is actually fun. Her mother is patient and relaxed, not in a frenzy like she usually is when she cooks, and they sing Christmas carols together as they work. She’d heard her mother sing before, but only in church, her soft voice following along with the melodies in the hymns. She’s not sure she’s _ever_ heard her mother sing in the kitchen. But she can hear where she gets her own singing voice—her mother’s voice is higher than Quinn’s, but shares some of the same tone qualities; it’s light and soft, not strong or particularly great, but pleasant and melodic. The kind of voice that should sing lullabies. Perhaps some women _were_ meant to be mothers.

Frannie shows up a little after noon, an exhausted-looking toddler on her hip and a guarded-looking husband at her side. She smiles and leans over to kiss Judy on the cheek, then her eyes snap to Quinn, who resists the urge to fidget under her sister’s critical gaze.

She gets a smile and a brief hug, and Frannie’s husband, Alton, shakes their hands. Quinn’s never seen him hug anyone—he even holds his daughter very functionally—though she assumes he must hug Frannie sometimes. She can see from the way they look and smile at each other that they’re in love, but they don’t ever show affection in front of others.

Frannie hefts her daughter, “Say ‘hi’ to Grandma, Bella,” she instructs in a tender voice. Bella buries her face in Frannie’s shoulder for a moment before gazing shyly at Judy, who smiles and holds out her arms. Frannie deposits the willing toddler into Judy’s arms and watches them fondly, “I know how much you miss your granddaughter.”

Judy’s eyes cut to Quinn for a split second, too quickly for Quinn to even read the expression, but she inhales sharply. She has no idea what it means—don’t mention Beth, technically her first granddaughter by a couple months? She isn’t planning on it. They haven’t talked about her, not even after what had happened at the Thanksgiving dinner table. Or does it mean that she _does_ miss Beth, and wishes she’d had a chance to meet her last fall?

Quinn doesn’t know, but as they make their way to the dining room for brunch, she’s surprised that little Bella decides she wants to sit on her Aunt Quinnie’s lap, partly because she knows there’s no way Bella remembers her from a year ago. But Quinn chuckles and obliges the child for awhile, glancing at Frannie to wordlessly ask for help; Frannie just tells her to help her cut her food into small pieces. Quinn does so, refusing to see whether the expression on her mother’s face as she watches them is indifferent or sympathetic, only glancing at Frannie to be sure she’s doing the right thing, until Alton instructs Bella that she should sit in her own seat like a good girl, and Frannie leans over to help the child instead.

She manages to keep up with the conversation, even though most of her attention is focused on her niece. Her hair is a curly strawberry blonde—which, Quinn knows, is no indication of her future hair color in this family. Quinn herself had been born with strawberry blonde hair that fell out when she was four, only to be replaced by light auburn, which darkened in her adolescence—the fact that it never saw the sun probably didn’t help. She’s dyed her hair since then, except for the middle of her pregnancy, when she’d been both essentially homeless and had discovered that the chemicals in hair dye could harm fetuses. She’d stopped dyeing it then and had been surprised to discover that the roots that grew in were a dark, dirty blonde—no longer auburn. It’s still not a shade she prefers, so she’d gone back to dyeing it as soon as possible. She knows that hormone surges can cause hair color to change in some people, and supposes pregnancy had done the trick in her case. It also is often a genetic trait, and it’s one definitely shared by her family; Frannie had been born with very light brown hair, only to get white-blonde hair in late childhood that had changed to a more honey-blonde with puberty. And as Judy approaches menopause, her hair gets darker; she’s been dyeing it for the past several years.

But Bella is only a few months younger than Beth, and would be about Beth’s size. She babbles, about half her words comprehensible, and her eyes are brown—Alton’s eyes. Quinn watches, trying to see as much Fabray as she can in the child, trying to see what traits she might share with her cousin, the cousin she may never meet, the daughter Quinn may never see again. She remembers what she heard Sugar say at Mr. Schue’s wedding—Shelby is leaving the area. Not that she is exactly welcome to drop by Shelby’s apartment to see her child, but now she’s terrified of losing the only way she knows to connect with her daughter.

Frannie catches her watching Bella a few times, and each time, they smile politely at each other, and for once, Quinn is grateful that Fabrays don’t discuss anything uncomfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Purity Ring, “Amenamy,” Jay-Z, “Empire State of Mind,” Rufus Wainwright, “14th Street,” and PJ Harvey, “Down by the Water.”
> 
> And yes, Quinn’s hair is fan-wanking at its messiest. But there are people whose hair color does change drastically throughout their lives, and really, it’s the only way I can make the implausible Lucy storyline fit in my headcanon—Quinn’s hair is blonde like her parents and her daughter, it’s just had some fluctuations.
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Merry: Young lesbian, new to Glee this year  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate and closest friend at Yale  
> Alton: Introduced this chapter  
> Bella: Introduced this chapter


	21. Whatever we deny or embrace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This update will contain some Finn POV.

_Whatever we deny or embrace_

 

The rest of Christmas is fairly uneventful. They open presents after brunch, most of which are for Bella from Judy, though basically everyone gets presents. She’s very grateful for her family’s wealth at this point, because she has no idea how Rachel is managing to work and attend school at the same time; sure, she gets time to relax with friends, but the vast majority of her time is spent on schoolwork. She actually has access to three trust accounts, two set up by each set of grandparents, and the one she had relinquished from her father. Much of the money is meant to go toward school—one fund can only be accessed specifically for school-related costs—but some of it is spending money, and though she generally tries to be frugal, especially hesitant to show her school friends that she comes from money, she’s glad to spend on Christmas.

She and her mother spend Christmas night eating leftovers from brunch and watching _It’s a Wonderful Life_. Her mother cries, but Quinn finds herself distracted. She remembers the time at God Squad when she’d confided in the others that, despite how horribly some things in her life had gone, she hadn’t considered ending it. And then how Kurt had came in to say to her that she could never understand Karofsky’s pain.

That hurt. Almost as badly as all the absolute _shit_ she had been put through. But there was nothing she could say. Kurt was hurting, too, and she’d forced her mouth shut, before she said anything she’d regret.

She knew depression. She knew what it was like to hate herself. When she’d told Zizes she’d changed herself because she loved herself, it wasn’t entirely true. She loved herself in the abstract, in the same sort of way she‘d loved her family for most of her life—not because they were particularly good to her, but because she knew she _had_ to. She also hated herself, hated the way she’d looked, hated the way she’d treated people, hated the way she ached inside, ached for someone to love her, ached for her daughter.

She couldn’t articulate very well why she never considered suicide. There were times when it crossed her mind that it would be such a _relief_ to not have to think about these things anymore, to not have to _feel_ things anymore, but something inside her had always risen up and steeled her spine and pushed those thoughts away. She didn’t think it came from her religious upbringing—she can’t remember anyone ever specifically discussing suicide at church—and though she was pretty sure she was an exceptionally strong-willed person, it was not entirely that. It was partially guilt; she always imagined what it would be like for people who cared about her—even people like Santana who were so damn good at hiding that they cared that she sometimes forgot—and for her family to have to take care of her corpse, and her belongings. It was guilt and empathy that made her stay, almost as much as a pure, instinctual drive to live that never let her see suicide as a real option.

And Beth. The desire to _be_ there, in case Beth ever needed _anything_ from her, was as life-affirming as any instinct.

After the accident, though, there’d been a day in which she spent her lunch in the choir room, unable to take the way people stared, when Kurt approached, rubbing his wrist and staring at his shiny boots. It was hard for him to avoid her eyes when she was basically at the level of his waist, but he managed.

“I’m so sorry,” he told her.

She wasn’t much in the mood for pity, so she half-glared at him, “What for?” she’d asked icily.

Kurt took a deep breath and actually met her eye, stating, “For what I said, about how you may have been through difficult things but everyone always loved you. For dismissing your pain.” He shot his eyes away, “I was wrong. I see you now,” and he’d waved his hand in an all-encompassing way at her that for some reason made her hackles rise slightly, “and see how optimistic you are, and I realized it’s because you have people who love you, friends and family, in your corner. Sophomore year, you were abandoned by people who claimed to love you. When I thought about it, I realized you were basically living a gay kid’s worst nightmare—you were kicked out of your home for something you didn’t have a whole lot of control over. And even your friends were so embarrassed by you that they didn’t stand by you.” He shook his head, “I’m sorry for judging you so harshly.”

Quinn had closed her eyes, and thought _what do you possibly have to lose_ and, for the first time, tried to find a way to _tell_ someone. “I…don’t know what it’s like to be gay like you and Karofsky, but…I know something similar,” she told him, quietly and painfully. Her heart sped up as her courage peaked, and her stomach twisted in anticipation of his support.

He didn’t seem to react properly _at all_ , just smiled a little and said, “I should have known that. I should have remembered how miserable you were…how miserable you’ve _been_ for, god, years now. That’s just…god, Quinn, sometimes I don’t know how you’re still here, in front of me.”

She hadn’t known what to say, since what she _tried_ to say seemed to have fallen on deaf ears, so she’d just thanked Kurt, and accepted the hug he offered, and forgave him for being unintentionally really dismissive of her pain and her feelings. She didn’t think they were ever going to be the best of friends or anything, but an understanding had settled between them, and mutual respect followed.

Inside, however, the courage she’d built crumbled as soon as she realized he didn’t understand what she had been trying to tell him. She felt inexplicably hurt and betrayed that he didn’t understand—foolish, she knew, on a cerebral level, but still there, still painful, and her courage lay shattered at her feet for months since. If she couldn’t even come out properly to the walking gaydar…

But now, on Christmas, she again feels the weight of the thing she’s been wanting to say for so Goddamn long, and one glance at her mother fills her with ice water, with frigid slushie. Absolutely not.

When she wakes up the next day, she needs to get out of the house, so she texts Puck at 9:30, hoping he’s actually awake and not at work.

 

**Q: I need Lauren Zizes’s address.**

**Puck: um wtf**

**Q: Hey, remember that time you knocked**  
**me up? You owe me, dumbass. Zizes’s**  
**address. No questions asked.**

**Puck: jesus q ok i’ll find it for u**

 

Fifteen minutes later, she has it, and when her mother comes home from work around 4:30, she asks to borrow the car, promising she’ll be home for dinner.

On the way there, she takes deep breaths, and refuses to think about anything except the road, and her speed, and the other drivers. She still trembles sometimes when she drives, but she’s learning to attack problems head on, and forcing herself to face her fear of car accidents has been a goal since the summer. And besides, focusing on her fear of driving is a good way to get everything _else_ out of her head.

Zizes actually lives fairly close to Puck, a few blocks away, and her street resembles Puck’s—the kind of houses that show signs of belonging to the lower-middle class, with cracked sidewalks, sagging gutters, old-fashioned architecture, and evergreen shrubs in desperate need of trimming. They’re not worn-down to the point of being dangerous, just a bit depressingly uncared for in a way that indicates the overwork and exhaustion the inhabitants must experience. Several are lit up with some hanging Christmas lights, or inflatable snowmen in the yard, which helps the image somewhat.

Zizes’s house is pretty similar, with both a loose board and blue icicle lights characterizing the front porch and a few muddy patches from recent cold, not-quite-freezing winter rain in the dead lawn. There’s a car in the driveway, so Quinn knocks optimistically.

When Lauren Zizes answers, her eyebrow rises and one side of her mouth twitches up. “Fabray. This is a surprise.”

“Hey,” Quinn says quietly. They stare at each other for a moment, before Quinn takes a breath and rushes on, “I need to tell you something, and it’s something I haven’t told anyone else, but I’m choosing to tell you because you’re the only person who ever really intimidated me. You almost beat me at my own game in high school, and you even apologized for the way you dragged Lucy into the spotlight. Still, I’m doing this because you still scare me a little, and I need to do this in a way that will make it easier when I tell others…”

“You’re rambling,” Zizes notes emotionlessly, but her smirk shows she’s interested.

“I’m gay,” Quinn blurts, and her vision immediately blurs and it’s…she’s _not_ even sure that’s what she wanted to say—she’d thought she was going to tell Zizes “I’m not straight” or “I like girls”—and…it’s one the first times she’s ever fully allowed herself to _think_ the words. Until this point, she’s been forcibly correcting herself in her head, changing it into a spectrum over the years of, _I’m naturally curious_ or _A few girls might be exceptions_ or _I’m bicurious_ or _Some girls are attractive_ or _I may not be entirely straight_ or _I’m bi_ or _Some girls make me feel more than guys_ or for a short-lived time, _I’m straight but not narrow_ , and for the past several months, all she’s allowed herself to think is _I have feelings for a girl_ or _I like girls_. She’s _never_ quite allowed herself to think this _exclusively_ about her feelings, even though she’s admitted her attraction to girls and dismissed her attraction to guys—to the point that over the summer she could tell Brittany with assuredness that she was not bisexual—she’s just never let herself fully connect the two. She’s avoided the label. Which is unsurprisingly easy, considering her repressive upbringing. She’s thought the word gay, but in contexts like _you and your stupid gay fantasies_ , and she recognizes now the way this let her do what so many religions did, and separate her actions from her identity. But now, it’s out, and she fully recognizes its truth. _I’m gay_.

She thinks she must’ve slipped out of her conscious mind for a bit, because the next thing she knows, she’s sitting at a small plastic table in Zizes’s kitchen with a mug of hot chocolate in front of her, Zizes across from her with her own mug, her expression bored, but Quinn can see a glimmer of sympathetic attention in the eyes magnified by her glasses. Quinn wipes at her cheeks with her palms, childlike and pathetic, takes a deep, shaky breath and stares into her mug.

“When did you know?” Zizes asks, seeming to sense that Quinn’s no longer spacing out. Quinn opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Zizes frowns slightly, and amends, “I mean, I’m not prying, it’s not like I’m _that_ interested in this revelation, Fabray, because it really doesn’t affect me at all. I just know it’s probably good for you to talk about it.”

Quinn shakes her head, “No, I know, I appreciate it, but…I don’t think I’m ready to talk about that. It’s…a little too personal.”

Zizes nods, keeping her disinterested mask. “So no one else knows?”

“No,” Quinn whispers.

Zizes snorts, “Not even Lopez and Brittany? Seriously?”

“I know,” Quinn emits a humorless laugh, “I mean, if I tell them, they’ll scrutinize everything they can remember about me, and I’m not ready for that.”

“You think I won’t do that?”

“Well, like you said, this doesn’t really interest you.”

“Of course not, but _come on_. Former head cheerleader who fits the Prom Queen title in every stereotypical way possible even if she never actually won because of _technicalities_ and _pranks_ just comes out to me, sure I’m gonna think back to everything you’ve ever done, even if it’s not of much _personal_ appeal.” Her eyes gleam, “Of course, I’m not going to tell you my thoughts, because it’s _your_ time to talk. So talk.”

Quinn doesn’t know what to say, so she just says, “I don’t know how to tell my mother, either. I don’t know how to tell _anybody_. But I just…I have a measure of respect for you, and I think you have some for me, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anybody.”

Zizes snorts, “Who would I tell?”

Quinn blinks, “I don’t know, I’m sure you’re still in touch with some people? Wait, where did you end up, anyway?”

She shrugs, “Indiana University. Undeclared, before you ask. And I mean, I dunno, I don’t talk to the Glee club much. Most of them kinda wrote me off after I left Senior year, which I get. I talk to Artie some; we stayed in touch in A/V club.”

“Oh, God,” Quinn says abruptly, “Do you still talk to Jacob ben Israel? Please don’t tell him!”

Zizes smirks and rolls her eyes, “Yeah, we’re in touch, but come on. He has better things to think about now than your sexuality. Besides which, I wouldn’t tell him anyway. And otherwise? I don’t think I still talk to anyone you know.”

“But I saw you at Puck’s party over the summer.”

Lauren’s smirk turns a little forced, “Yeah, well. Puckerman had his moments. I wish sometimes we’d stayed friends at least, but whatever. Can’t change the past, right?”

And that, Quinn thinks, is something she definitely gets, and somehow, just proves to her that she made the right choice in confiding in Zizes.

 

_My blood’s so mad feels like coagulatin’_

 

He’s really grateful for the fact that he’s allowed to be home for Christmas. He’s actually getting close to the end of his program at the Ordnance Mechanical Maintenance School, which is really neat. He learned a bunch of stuff working for Burt, but he’s learning even more now, and he enjoys most of all working on the wheeled military vehicles, because he figures that will be the most useful for when he decides he wants to be a civilian again and work on cars.

Working on machinery always did make him happy. He remembers early in Senior year, before things with Rachel got completely messy and he wasn’t thinking about the future, when he was sure he could be happy just staying there working in the Hummel shop. She and everyone else had encouraged him to look beyond that, to try to dream bigger, and the pressure had just frustrated him and, he thinks now, caused his relationship with Rachel to implode.

He remembers when the realization that he could be happy doing this snuck up on him again. He had been on the phone with Burt, after talking to his mother for awhile, and was describing all the cool stuff he was learning about maintaining and repairing military equipment, and Burt had said that it sounded like a crazier version of the apprenticeship he had gone through, and Finn had said that he heard he can earn certification to work on cars through the army and he’s thinking of doing that. And that’s when he knew. He feels strangely at home in the army, to the point that he wants to keep going with it for awhile, but he sometimes thinks of the way it broke his father. He wants to do it long enough to bring honor back to his father’s name, and get out before it can possibly break _him_ , too, but then, he realizes almost painfully, he would be _fine_ just settling down somewhere and working on cars for the rest of his life.

It had scared him, because he was still trying to win Rachel back. He had so many regrets about the way that had turned out, the way he’d desperately tried to tie them together with a ring instead of trusting in their love. But, even then, he supposes he’d realized underneath it all that they were doomed, that even their love wasn’t going to keep them together when they needed so desperately to be apart to chase their dreams.

Of course, it had taken Finn a long time to find his dream, but he’s sure he’s living it now. And Kurt is right. He can’t sacrifice it for her, and she can’t sacrifice hers for him. It doesn’t make it any easier to stop loving her; it’s almost a habit at this point, like a flower pointing at the sun, it feels natural to pour love back at someone who had been investing so much in him, even if he was never entirely sure what the love he was feeling was really like. He spent so much of that relationship doubting it, that when he thinks he finally did start to feel it, he questioned it, and it scared him, and he tried to preserve it by marrying her. Even now, he can’t be entirely sure if he loves her or what he wishes she could be.

But again, it doesn’t make it any easier to let go. Nor is it any easier to know that they’re in the same town at the same time and he can’t see her. He won’t. Both for her, and for his own heart.

He makes it home on Christmas Eve, and Carole picks him up at the airport. He’d missed his mom so much; he barely feels like he had been home for Thanksgiving, and he hugs Burt when he gets home. He missed them both.

And Kurt…yeah, they hug, but he thinks he can tell that Kurt’s still a little peeved at him. He hadn’t really realized until after they’d talked on the phone that he had stopped writing to Kurt once he started writing to Rachel, and it really took that phone conversation for him to see how much he misses Kurt. But he’s also embarrassed now, because of the things Kurt said that were true.

He never meant to hurt anybody. He had lashed out at Santana in a way that he now regrets, and because he had realized it was wrong, that’s why he had worked so hard to make it okay, by singing songs, and trying for her forgiveness. And he figured once he got that, he was in the clear, which was why he was so surprised that Kurt was still mad about that. He just hates it when people are mad at him. He never meant to hurt Rachel, either, it had just gotten so messy, and he certainly never meant to hurt Kurt.

Because of how awkward he feels about Kurt, family time is slightly weird, so once Christmas Day is over, he just kind of wants to give Kurt some distance. Kurt seems to feel the same way, and calls Blaine Christmas night in order to make plans to get out of the house himself. Finn sometimes is thankful that Burt and Carole had agreed to move to a bigger house, because he knows he wouldn’t be comfortable sharing a room with Kurt, especially not since he has a boyfriend. He doesn’t think _that’s_ homophobic, but sometimes he thinks about what it must be like for Kurt and Blaine to make out and he just feels weird. He doesn’t like to think about it, but it doesn’t change the fact that he loves his brother and wants him to be happy. That’s what counts, right? But it’s good, too, because the new house isn’t far at all from Burt and Kurt’s old house, so it’s easy to get to the auto shop, and the new house has a guest room, which had been really useful when Sam had come to live with them—no one had to share a bedroom. And Burt was renting the old house to one of his most-trusted employees, which was a good source of income and the guy would probably be the one managing the business while Burt did his thing in DC, so it all worked out.

And Finn wishes Sam was there to sorta be a buffer between him and Kurt, but Sam’s seeing his own family for the holiday. Which is good. Burt tells him Sam should be back a couple days after Christmas, so Finn will get to see him, but he wishes he were there now.

He doesn’t have too many people he feels like can see one on one. Except…he borrows Burt’s phone to text Puck the morning after Christmas.

Puck says he can come by in the afternoon, and Finn spends the time until then looking at his friends’ pictures on Facebook. He hadn’t taken his computer with him to AIT, because being without it for BCT made him realize how easily distracted he can get and he thought it might be better not to have it with him in AIT. He doesn’t even have his phone, because he’d agreed to cut his cell phone service while he was away, both to save money and to minimize distractions; his mother thought it would be good for him to write letters. Of course, he’s allowed to use pay phones at the base, even more frequently now that he’s in AIT and has more free time. But now, as he scrolls through Facebook, he realizes how much he’s missed. Mercedes is in an open relationship? Brittany is Senior class president again?

He turns on his Xbox and tries to play a little bit of CoD, but he’s just not sure it holds the same appeal that it used to, now that he knows more about how to use real guns. Still, he plays through a few missions for awhile just to zone out until four, when he heads over to Puck’s.

He smiles as he approaches the door. Puck has lived in the same house for as long as he’s known him. They met as kids, when Puck got held back in first grade, mostly due to behavior problems. Finn much later put together the pieces and realized that Puck had been acting out because of things with his family; it was around that time, when his sister was still tiny, that his father had walked out, never to fully return again. Puck stopped behaving in school and stopped trying.

Meeting Finn had probably actually been a great thing for him. Finn was a kid who wanted to do what was right, and when he and Puck bonded by playing Power Rangers at recess, they became instant friends. Still, it wasn’t all smooth sailing. Puck would suggest they do something bad or mean, and sometimes Finn would say no, that’s wrong. About half the time, Puck would shrug and give in, but the other half, Finn would find himself involved in some scheme that he didn’t particularly feel good about, and they’d both get in trouble.

Finn’s mother had been pretty uncertain about Finn’s new best friend. Back then, Puck had worn his tangled hair long, almost shoulder-length, which for kids that age was almost as badass a statement as the mohawk later was—Puck was tough because he had long hair and he didn’t care who saw it (Finn had never realized it was because his mother couldn’t afford to get him a decent haircut, and Puck had been too angry at her for too long to let her cut it herself, but Carole had). But Puck had known how to be charming even then, and Carole grew to love him, even if he continued to get Finn in trouble throughout their childhood. She couldn’t know, however, how often Finn would stop Puck from doing bad things if he were there.

He can’t help but think of all they’d been through in childhood as he knocks, and just _seeing_ Puck when he answers the door, with his shaved head, loose jeans and Browns hoodie, he breaks into a wide grin and almost moves to hug him, but Puck’s hollow eyes stop him, “Hey, dude! What’s up?” Finn asks. It almost feels like he hadn’t even seen Puck at Mr. Schue’s wedding, he was so distracted.

Puck folds him arms and flicks his gaze up and down Finn’s form. Obviously, he’d stopped wearing his uniform once he’d gotten home, and had pulled on some old clothes—pants that he now needed a belt to hold up, a shirt that felt tight on his arms. He then meets Finn’s eyes again and says, “What do you want?”

Finn falters, and eyes Puck as if he’s crazy. “I’m here to see you, man. It’s been forever. I’d love to hang out and catch up. You know.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Puck deadpans.

Finn stares harder, “What do you mean?”

“I get it now,” Puck glares. “Guess I’m only your best friend when you haven’t got anybody else. Now that Sam’s in Kentucky and you don’t have Rachel to chase, you come crawling back to me because I’m the only one left who’s in your corner.”

“That’s not true,” Finn tries to protest.

“Oh, it is. Maybe Kurt is, too, but I’m sure he’d rather spend time with his boyfriend right now, yeah?” Puck shakes his head, “You haven’t earned my best friendship.”

“But, dude, we’re bros for life. We agreed that. I mean, when we took that trip this summer, I thought we agreed that we’d never let anything get between us again.”

Puck snorted, “Yeah, well, you broke that when you decided to put Rachel through the shitter again. Tried not to take sides, but I couldn’t take seeing her that messed up about you again, and after what we talked about this summer? I thought you knew you needed to leave her alone! I thought you’d started growing up, man, but you’re still as self-centered as ever.”

Finn sputters, then scowls, “How can you say that?!”

At this point, Puck finally slams his front door and steps full out onto the stoop. Finn barely registers his bare feet, and reigns in the urge to tell him he should get shoes. He’s pissed, what the fuck does he care if Puck gets frostbite, when he’s being such an asshole?

“I say that shit because you’ve treated me like dirt!” Puck shouts in his face, and his expression is twisted with rage, “After all we did, after we spent like more than a month together, seeing the whole damn country, after I offered to take you with me so we could bond, would it have fucking _killed_ you to write me a Goddamn letter? Once?! I didn’t hear a fucking thing from you while you were at boot camp, _bro_ , so for God’s sake, what did you want me to do? I wrote you off!”

Finn flaps his mouth a bit uselessly, then snarls, “You have _no_ idea what it was like for me there! It was hard and I was always _exhausted_. I’m sorry I didn’t have the time to write you a goddamn love letter!”

“Oh, _fuck_ you, because I know you wrote fucking _billions_ to Rachel, and you wrote to your parents and Kurt, which, fine, I get you want to keep in contact with your family, but for fuck’s sake, _Rachel_ didn’t want to hear from you! I would’ve written you back every time, just to show you I was there to support you, because I’m supposed to be your best friend, but you didn’t give a _fuck_ about me!”

“And why should I?!” Finn screams back, his temper finally snapping, “What are you even doing with your life?! What would you have to tell me? How many underaged girls you got drunk? Jesus, Puck, all I’ve seen or heard about you doing since graduation is go get alcohol and get people drunk! If you keep this up, you are gonna be just like your dad in a few years, if you don’t die from alcohol poisoning first!”

Puck’s fist rises, but he stops himself, and he growls, “Don’t you dare compare me to him! I’m just trying to make people _happy_ , Goddamnit! I just want people to have a good time!”

“And the only way you can think of to do that is to get illegal alcohol?”

“You fucking hypocrite, you got as drunk as me this summer before you left. What, now that you’re a soldier you’re all high and fucking mighty? Fuck you! I’m here exactly where you left me and I’ll probably always be here in motherfucking Lima, so you just go do your _soldier_ thing and let me live the way I fucking want. If I want to give people alcohol, I’ll do it. If I want to get drunk, I’ll do it!”

“I’m just worried about you,” Finn suddenly pleads, his voice losing some of its edge, “You had all these plans to go to California, and now you’re just _here_ , doing, I don’t even know what, and you’re better than this, Puck.”

Puck snorts, some of his anger draining as well, “The fuck I am. Look, California will still be there in a couple years. I just have to stay here to help my mom out for a little longer…” he trails off.

“I get it,” Finn says quietly. It had taken him a long time to realize that Puck’s family had money problems. “But just…be careful, man. You can have a good life, and I’ll always have your back. And I’m sorry. That I didn’t write.” He doesn’t even have a good excuse. For whatever reason, it just hadn’t occurred to him to write to Puck. It just felt so… _girly_.

“Whatever,” Puck growls lightly, “You know I didn’t mean it when I said I wrote you off. I’ll always have your back.”

“Okay,” Finn says quietly.

“Okay,” Puck echoes.

They stare at one another for a few minutes before Puck finally says, “Look, I need some time. Maybe we can hang out before you leave, but…not right now. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Finn whispers, “That’s cool. Um. See you later then.”

“Later,” Puck nods, and watches as Finn walks back to his truck.

Puck takes a deep breath and walks back into his house, thanking God that his sister is at a friend’s house and his mother is at work, so no one really heard their argument. His heart had been in his throat when Finn had gotten there, and then suddenly he’d been _furious_ that Finn was just going to pretend that he hadn’t been ignoring him for like five fucking months.

He meant what he said, about always having Finn’s back. The guy had been there for him through most of his life, and despite their problems in high school, they’d pretty much always managed to be okay with each other. But even so, he just feels like something may have broken permanently this time. They may always be bros, in some way, but Puck’s pretty sure they’re no longer best friends.

But he’s also pretty sure this is also something they can come back from. They always do. They may always have to work at their friendship, but he’s pretty sure they’ll always want to.

 

_I’ll pretend I’m blind in one eye and I’ll hide it in you_

 

Watching Rachel, Quinn and Kurt leave for Lima had been painful. Of course. She’d felt helpless, foolish, embarrassed, angry, frustrated and sad. A cluster of emotions that basically added up to Santana despised the fact that her job basically told her she couldn’t go home for Christmas.

She supposes the only plus is that she has most of Christmas Day itself off, fat lot of good that does her, though. She is to go into work early in the evening on Christmas Eve so that hopefully they can finish restocking the store before 2am, and then she doesn’t work again until her normal shift, at 10pm, on the day after Christmas. The store is actually closed on Christmas Day, which also happens to mean no deliveries that evening, so that’s _something_. People lucky enough to have family close by might be able to spend the holiday with them.

So far, Santana just plans to Skype with her parents on Christmas morning. They’d sent her Christmas presents by mail; the large parcel is in her room already, waiting for her Skype call. She’d managed to send her parents’ presents by mail as well. Luckily, she’d ordered them online after finding out she wouldn’t be coming home, so they were just sent there to begin with (she’d needed the time to earn the money to buy them). The same with her friends’ gifts; she feels awkward being thanked for presents, so she even sent her roommates’ presents to their addresses in Lima.

She goes to bed around 8:30 after seeing off her friends, and she’s exhausted, because she’s almost never up this late…or early…or whatever the fuck.

At around 3:30, she wakes up because she hears her phone ringing. She usually leaves her phone on the lowest volume setting on her short bookshelf that doubles as her bedside table, and with the fan running, she never wakes up to texts, but the rhythmic vibration of a phone call often does wake her, even if she can’t hear her ringtone over the white noise of the fan.

She gropes for the phone and answers it somewhat blearily, without even bothering to check the display. “Yeah?”

“Oh no, I woke you up, I’m sorry.”

Her face relaxes instantly and she slowly stretches back out onto her pillows, “Hey, baby.”

“Hey, San,” Brittany says, “I thought you’d be up by now.”

“It’s okay. Best way to wake up ever.”

“I think I can make it better,” Brittany purrs.

Santana half-groans and half-laughs, “Much as I love morning sex, I’m just not sure if I’m up for it right now,” she admits a little begrudgingly.

“Oh. I didn’t mean that, though now that you say it, I _so_ should have thought of that, but I guess it’s okay that I didn’t.” Santana smiles and burrows a bit more into her blankets. “But what I meant was, I talked to my parents, and I’m coming up to see you.”

Santana blinks, startled, “Wait, what? Holy shit. When?”

“It’s like their Christmas present to you and me. I need to be here for Christmas morning, but I can fly out that afternoon and get there that night.”

“Oh my god,” Santana whispers, squeezing her eyes shut, “You have no idea, Britts. You have no idea how good it feels to hear that.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought, too,” Brittany agrees with a chuckle.

It’s easier to get through her weekend of work; even the freezer doesn’t feel so cold. After she and Helen finish restocking the grocery section, they’re in the seasonal section, where they’re instructed to get everything on the shelves no matter what, and are then given eight pallets full of mostly Christmas ornaments and stockings. The whole section is a huge damn mess by the time they’re finished, but at least everything is on the shelves.

The early shift on Monday is a pain. Santana sets an alarm, just to make sure she doesn’t sleep past 4, and basically wakes up and doesn’t dawdle. She goes with eggs for breakfast, hoping the protein will help combat her annoyance and exhaustion—she’s not used to waking up to an alarm, and it seems to have caught her at a bad part of her sleep. They’re open until midnight, so that last-minute shoppers can come in and get anything they need, and she’s sure she’ll be badgered by annoying assholes all night.

She’s right. Panicked white women stop her and demand in pretend Spanish that she find them a video game, disgruntled men get furious when she tells them she doesn’t know where something is, kids lose track of their parents and cry. Santana grinds her teeth as she struggles to stay focused on the groceries and then bullshit Christmas things she’s supposed to be restocking. Helen is there, too, but stuck over in electronics, so Santana is by herself.

She’s snapping at some middle-aged suburban mom (which is like, what the fuck is she doing at this store?) who is claiming (in slow, drawn-out sentences where every verb ends with an “o”) that she knows for a fact that have some particular toy Santana has never heard of, (the most polite response she can muster, and it takes all of her willpower to say it, is “I speak English fine, thank you, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. Ask someone else.”) when Angela seems to appear out of nowhere.

“You can find that over there, ma’am,” a brightly smiling Angela tells the fuming white woman, pointing out the right aisle. Santana can’t help but stare, taking in the messy blonde bun, warm brown eyes, and she lets her gaze linger on that rainbow charm around her neck.

When she snaps her eyes back to Angela’s face, she’s rolling her eyes, “God, customers are a nightmare this time of year.” And it’s great, because they’re supposed to call customers “guests” which just seems like bullshit to Santana, because why in the world would anyone invite such rude assholes over?

“Yeah,” Santana chuckles, and watches the girl through her eyelashes. It’s weird, because she thinks the girl might actually be a little shorter than her, which, although she doesn’t like to admit it, is not that common. “Thanks for the rescue.”

“No problem,” Angela grins, and Santana watches as her eyes flick up and down. Santana feels a bit…vulnerable. She’s long stopped wearing more makeup than just concealer to work—there’s _really_ no reason to look all that pretty here—and after a couple hours of work, there’s almost no way to keep her hair from frizzing, so she knows she must look a little sloppy and therefore much _gayer_ than normal (what, she’s not a self-hating homosexual, it’s just a stereotype, everyone knows it), but judging by Angela’s smile, she doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re Santana, right?”

Santana glances down and then rolls her eyes, fishing out her name badge that she forgot to pin on; usually no one overnight bothers with them, “Was that a hint?” she asks as she puts it on.

Angela laughs, “Nah. Just, I’ve heard some things about you. Mostly from Helen.”

“Ah,” Santana nods, “I’ve heard a bit about you, too.”

“I heard you’re available.”

“Uhm,” Santana stutters slightly, and _jesus_ this isn’t fair. This isn’t like Helen, where the possibility just kind of snuck up on her after getting to know the girl for a couple months, where it had been a potentially dangerous intellectual, emotional attraction, this is like…damn it. It’s very much immediate and surface and _physical_. Maybe she does have a type, and it’s blonde, blunt and benign…

Angela seems to take her faltering for affirmation and smirks, but then another employee, some Middle Eastern guy Santana doesn’t know, is calling her name and waving her over. Angela rolls her eyes again and walks briskly over to him.

Santana lets out her breath and goes back to shoving stockings on the overstuffed hooks on the wall. And tells herself it’s _fine_ , Brittany won’t mind, Brittany _wants_ her to do this.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from Pat Benatar, “We Belong,” Barry McGuire, “Eve of Destruction” and Purity Ring, “Shuck.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Helen: Santana's sarcastic gay coworker friend, Santana feels weird about their friendship occasionally  
> Angela: Santana's coworker that works during the day, also gay, used to work with Helen and the two dealt with rumors about their non-existent relationship  
> Bella: Quinn's neice


	22. The city is freezin', but you're all mine

_The city is freezin’ but you’re all mine_

 

When Santana gets home at around 2:30am on Christmas Day, she doesn’t go to sleep. She probably couldn’t even if she tried. Instead, she tries to find something to watch on Netflix. It’s frustrating, because all the movies she can think of that she considers Christmas classics are not available for streaming, so she ends up clicking kind of randomly on a show called _Twin Peaks_ (because, naturally, the name makes her smirk), which is…

She gets drawn in immediately by the terrifyingly creepy atmosphere and the utter _bizarreness_ of what’s happening. She’s about four episodes in, completely compelled and almost shaking with adrenaline when she realizes she should be on Skype to talk to her parents.

She signs onto Skype and waits, frowning, until her cell phone rings.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s managed to talk her parents through the process of actually calling her on Skype, which, yeah, they probably should have ironed out earlier, but then they’re sitting there smiling at each other.

And it’s nice, she guesses, being able to see her parents; her father, quiet as usual, giving her a warm and loving smile, and her mother, beaming to cover her sadness. They open gifts—Santana gets things like warm socks and a warm hat (which is funny, because it’s not like Ohio has completely benign winters, and her parents are acting like she’s moved to the arctic or something), piles of cosmetic and toiletry supplies, and even a few fun things, like an Amy Winehouse record (her parents know about her birthday present from Rachel) and a Nook, which is…a surprise, but a nice one. She should probably read more, she thinks. She watches way too much TV.

She’s happy to talk to her parents, but it’s getting late, almost 8, and she’s getting tired. Eventually, her mother says they have to go because they need to get ready to go to Mass; her family always goes on Christmas and Easter. Those are the only days her father goes, and Santana has more or less ended up following his lead (except for here, where she’d decided it’s not worth the effort or exhaustion to go out and find a church to attend for a day). Her mother attends Mass a lot more frequently.

After she signs off with her parents, she gets ready for bed and calls Brittany as she’s sinking down into her blankets.

“Merry Christmas, sweetie,” Brittany answers her phone.

“Merry Christmas, Britt. I’m getting ready to get some sleep. When does your flight come in?”

“Around six,” Brittany responds. “Can…” she hesitates, “Can you meet me at the airport? I don’t remember how to ride the subway and I don’t want to get lost trying to find your apartment.”

“Sure thing,” Santana nods, “I was planning on it anyway. It definitely takes some getting used to.” She rides so infrequently that it wasn’t until probably late October that she could ride by herself without constantly verifying she was going the right way, or constantly checking the maps. For a girl from a small city with an unimpressive bus system that she’d really never used, New York City’s winding, branching rivers of rails and tributaries of bus lines are fairly overwhelming. This isn’t Brittany needing her help because she’s inept, it is Brittany being smart and reasonable about her ability to navigate through a confusing system in an unfamiliar place.

They exchange professions of love and Santana settles down to get some sleep. She reflects that it really won’t feel like Christmas until she wakes back up—even if she’s already opened her presents.

By the time she wakes back up and makes it to the airport to meet Brittany, she’s finally excited. She can’t explain how, because as far as she can tell, the city _looks_ basically the same, and people riding the public transportation _seem_ the same—hurried, focused—but it just feels like Christmas. Maybe it’s the crisp bite in the air, the way the city lights seem softer, warmer, the way wreaths and holly hang on light posts or on doors all over—even her fairly brief walk to the subway through her not-especially nice neighborhood is uncharacteristically cheery.

Brittany calls as soon as she gets off the plane, and follows the signs to the baggage claim area where Santana waits. Santana stays on until she sees her and then they’re flinging their arms around each other and, unable to help it, kissing. It’s not obscene, just a few simple lip locks, and as she pulls away, she can’t bring herself to care if anyone is watching. Though a glance around seems to show that no one is.

She can’t stop staring at Brittany as they wait for her rolling luggage to come through baggage claim, and Brittany seems hardly able to look away, herself. She’s taking in the slope of her neck, while Brittany seems to be staring at her lips, and they almost miss Brittany’s bag the first time it rotates around, but Santana spots it and hipchecks a grandmother out of the way to grab it. The grandma glares, but whatever, because she’s beaming when she brings it back to Brittany. “Ready, babe?”

“Sure,” Brittany nods, and slides back on her dark blue coat, unnecessary on the plane and in the airport, pulling out a yellow beanie to shove over her blonde hair and pink mittens. Santana smiles and carries her luggage for her, leading her back to the bus that will take them to the subway.

Brittany is grinning by the time they step off the subway and into Santana’s neighborhood. “I forgot how cool the subway is. It’s like an underground roller coaster, but really slow and no one screams.” Santana remembers the first time they’d rode it, on the Junior year trip for Nationals, and how some of the kids had stumbled as the train started and stopped, but not Brittany. Her dance training and natural grace had allowed her to completely unconsciously shift her weight so that she’d never stumble. If she had enough room, she’d perhaps twirl around a pole a little so that she’d be _dancing_ as she shifted her weight. This time, they’d been lucky to find seats on their train cars—perhaps imbued with the Christmas spirit, people seemed to notice Santana carrying a big bag and would offer her their seats, and Brittany, too, once they realized she was with her. It was shocking, for a city not particularly known for its friendliness.

Santana keeps her wary eyes alert as they walk to her apartment. She’s wearing clothes that make her feel a little bit tough—jeans and a t-shirt, leather jacket, Reds baseball cap that she’s had since she went through a baseball phase at around age ten, and nice hiking boots her parents got her for her birthday (she’d requested them because wearing sneakers in the freezer at work made her feet excruciatingly cold). She tries to walk with confidence—it’s a façade she’s practiced since she, Rachel and Kurt started agreeing to escort each other through the neighborhood as often as possible. Since she sometimes needs to walk by herself to meet one or both of them, she tries as hard as she can to look like someone that no one should mess with. Even if it wouldn’t actually put anyone off—a woman of perfectly _average_ height (she’s not short, damn it), walking alone at night is _always_ a target—it helps with her own peace of mind, and right now, it helps her feel like she’s keeping Brittany safe.

Brittany seems to notice the change in her body language and sobers some, talking less, but her bright eyes are taking in the surroundings, brightening as they notice signs of Christmas cheer, the same way Santana had earlier in the evening. As they get into the apartment building, Santana feels the tension leave her frame, and Brittany smiles brightly at her, and when they walk into the apartment itself, Brittany’s smile gets wider.

“This is so cool,” she gushes, “It looks so much bigger when it’s not on my Skype screen.”

She gets a brief tour, and Brittany looks at the space between her bed and Rachel’s with mild interest, until Santana rolls her eyes, “We’re only ever in the same room for like an hour in the mornings.”

“It’s still kinda funny,” Brittany says, “cause you’re hot and sleeping so close. Do you wake each other up?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Santana answers, “Her alarm woke me up for the first couple weeks if she actually slept past when I got in bed, but I don’t even hear it anymore, and the first couple times I’d come in to go to bed, she’d wake up a little, but now she sleeps right through it. Generally. Every once in awhile one of us will wake each other up, but we’re both good at turning over and going back to sleep or whatever. It’s worked out better than I could have imagined.”

“That’s cool,” Brittany nods, “I’m glad you guys can share, because I know it’s good Kurt’s here, too.”

“Come on,” Santana touches her elbow gently, “Let’s see which Chinese places are delivering tonight.”

They place their order and Santana turns on Mariah Carey’s Christmas album and then reaches over to pull Brittany to her as she leans back to recline on the couch. Brittany hums and nuzzles her neck, pressing little kisses occasionally, but it’s not a sexy moment, really—maybe because the day was so long for Brittany, and strangely emotional for Santana, and that they’re both so hungry, but this just feels nicer right now. She noses Brittany’s hair, enjoying the vaguely floral scent of her shampoo, and plants little kisses on her part.

“What do you want to do in New York?” she asks. She does have to work while Brittany is visiting, but at the moment, she feels capable of neglecting some sleep in order to spend time out in the city with Britt.

“Hmm,” Brittany hums, “Ooh, wait, is this the city with that duck pond? The one in the book?”

It takes Santana a second to figure out what she means, because she thinks about when she had to read _Catcher in the Rye_ for school (which she’d kind of hated, because that guy was such a moper), but then she remembers Brittany never read that. And the book she _does_ mean comes to mind, and Santana smiles, “No, baby, I think that’s Boston. But there are nice ponds here, too, though I don’t think the ducks stick around when they’re frozen.” But she feels warm, thinking about that book—one that they bonded over as kids, _Make Way for Ducklings_. She hadn’t really forgotten about it, but it’s things like this, the things Brittany remembers, that makes her swell with love. Brittany probably remembers every facet of their friendship and relationship. Brittany could probably tell her the exact date of when they first kissed, even though they were like 11, and Santana’s there to help keep the other facts straight—the mundane ones, like where that duck pond is located.

In a way, she’s convinced that there’s nothing in the world they don’t know. They just have to put their heads together.

“Oh yeah,” Brittany murmurs, nuzzling closer, “We can do whatever you like. The city is supposed to be really pretty around Christmas.”

She smiles, and it’s true. It’s almost like she forgets she lives here, because she so rarely feels like she has to the time to go out and enjoy the city. But what she really wants is to get things right for Brittany’s birthday. She barely has time to prepare, finding out as late as she did that Brittany was coming, but she’d badgered her coworker Derek, a friendly guy in his mid-twenties who had never, ever perved on her, until he’d agreed to take her shift the night of Brittany’s birthday.

But if it’s left all in her hands, she can’t be sure it will be awesome. Although, who is she kidding. With her and Brittany, anything is fun.

She’s worrying for no reason when she should be focusing on the amazing fact that Brittany is _here_ , with her. So she tilts her lover’s face up for a languid kiss and holds her close, enjoying the warmth as they wait for dinner.

 

_And you’re a devil meaning well_

 

Evidently, it had happened something like this.

It’s two days after Christmas and she’s standing shivering in her grandmother’s backyard so she can even hear him (her daddy has a big family, and Christmas is when they can all get together), and she pieces it together from Puck’s excited voice on the phone—it’s almost childish, really, the way he’s speaking. He’d been on the phone with Sam and they’d been discussing New Year’s plans. The pizza shop Sam worked for is closed on New Year’s Day, so he’d taken a few days off to have some fun with Mercedes, and Puck was sure he could call Billy or Malcolm if he needed some time off himself (Billy had informed him that January was usually a slow month for restaurants because people needed time to earn a buffer of money after Christmas, so they all might experience some lost hours anyway). One of them had suggested a little road trip or something, which had led to the idea of New York and the realization that they knew people in New York.

“So we were gonna invite the Glee kids to spend New Year’s in New York! I mean, I know your apartment isn’t huge, but Sam thinks Mercedes’s dad might be willing to pay for a hotel for a couple nights so we can visit. What do you say, my hot Jew bro? Can we crash your New Year’s plans?”

Rachel chuckles a little, “I don’t know that we have specific plans! I will have to ask Kurt and Santana. I know that I am not working for New Year’s, however. I had already intended to try to do something in the city with Quinn and requested time off accordingly.”

“Well, do you want me to call Kurt or Santana to ask them?”

“No, I will be happy to handle it. I will call you back soon, Noah.”

Santana doesn’t answer her phone at first, but Kurt does, and seems excited by the idea. Blaine says he’d love to come up with them. Kurt says he works on New Year’s Eve, but not New Year’s Day, so he’s up for some fun.

Santana calls back as she’s finishing up talking to Kurt, “Hey,” she breathes into the phone, her voice soft, relaxed.

Rachel frowns, “Are you okay?”

Santana chuckles lightly, “Oh, yeah,” she purrs, and there are a few giggles in the background. Rachel feels her face heat up.

“Oh my God,” Rachel groans, “Santana! Tell me you are not calling mid-coitus!”

Santana’s voice hardens instantly, “Are you joking? You think I want you listening in on that?! Damn, Berry, can’t a girl just feel _good_?” Rachel can hear the smirk as she finishing speaking.

She takes a breath, “Okay. I apologize for assuming something so vulgar, Santana. I have a proposition for you.”

Santana snorts loudly at the double entendre and Rachel knows she’s blushing again. She ignores this, however, and powers through Puck’s suggestion of New Year’s plans. Santana shrugs, “I’m lucky enough to have New Year’s Eve off. Let’s do this shit!”

Rachel claps happily, her phone almost sliding off her shoulder at the excited display, “Excellent! I shall call Noah and make some plans!”

Puck sounds just as childishly excited as she tells him she thinks they could all celebrate together, and he babbles about how he and Sam will take care of calling their friends, and how he can ask Kurt if Burt has a van or something he can loan them—the auto shop frequently fixes up cars to sell—and Rachel laughs and thanks him.

She calls Quinn next, and she answers, sounding a little…off. Rachel frowns, but when Quinn assures her she just a little tired, she launches into an explanation of their potential New Year’s plans.

Quinn’s quiet for a moment, and Rachel asks, “You’re still going to be in New York for New Year’s, right?”

“Oh. Right,” Quinn breathes, and she sounds…still off. Distracted, or disappointed, or _something_. Rachel wishes she could see Quinn’s face, because sometimes, even though she can’t always read everything in her expressive eyes, sometimes they seem to say so much. “Yeah, that’s still the plan.”

“Okay,” Rachel drawls, a little uncertain, “Is…is this okay that everyone is coming to town?”

“Of course,” Quinn assures, sounding much more like herself now, “I’m sorry. I’m just…when are you coming back to Lima? I’m going crazy here with just my mom. I mean, I’m supposed to hang out with Kurt and Blaine a bit tomorrow, and I went to Puck’s restaurant today to see him a little bit, but…” she trails off, and Rachel catches a little hiccup of air that makes it seem like she cut herself off from saying more.

Rachel smiles a little bit, “I know. That’s why I’m so glad we have this opportunity to celebrate New Year’s together. Christmas is just such a family heavy holiday, it sounds like barely anyone is in Lima right now. But I think we’re heading home tomorrow. I’ll call you, and we’ll do something, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks. And looking forward to New Year’s in New York. It sounds great!” Her enthusiasm sounds forced, Rachel realizes, but…Quinn’s probably a little down, being lonely and tired at the moment, so…that must be it.

It’s one of those moments, though, that forces her to acknowledge that something _strange_ happened between her and Quinn, at around the time Finn started writing to her. Quinn…withdrew. Rachel suspects it’s because she hadn’t told Quinn about the correspondences. And Rachel knows Quinn would probably be disappointed in her, for being so weak, for considering all the ways she could abandon her future to be with that man, that _boy_ she had loved. When Quinn had been the one to consistently push her to leave him behind…of course she would be ashamed of her. She hadn’t wanted to confide her weakness in Quinn.

There’s also the little part of her that doesn’t quite believe what Quinn said about never really loving Finn. Why would she date him twice? Why would she fight against Rachel so strongly for him? Why would she _refuse_ to allow Rachel to marry him, with her desperate eyes and tears in her voice? Even Santana’s suggestion that dating Finn had been more about reputation for the both of them hadn’t quite quelled Rachel’s doubt. This is yet another reason why she hadn’t wanted to tell Quinn about Finn pursuing her again—why drive the knife back in when they had been both finally happy to be friends together, without him coming between them? And now…she hasn’t even really told Quinn what had happened with her phone call with Finn, about the fact that she was pretty sure _he_ knew they were over now, too. Why give Quinn ideas about Finn’s single status? Rachel’s positive Quinn wouldn’t leave Yale for Finn, but maybe she’d have the stomach Rachel lacks for a long-distance relationship with the boy who finally seems to be growing up a little. After all, for Quinn, New Haven isn’t her forever, unlike New York for Rachel.

Maybe. The pieces don’t quite fit, but they’re all Rachel can come up with. And thinking about Quinn and Finn together…that hurts. And not in the old-wound, loser-girl-envying-the-head-cheerleader kind of way she knows so well, but it’s a new hurt. Like somehow, she’ll lose what she and Quinn have if Finn comes back.

And that makes her ache more than anything.

 

_You’d make a fine shrine in me_

 

Rachel, Quinn and Kurt fly back to New York on the 30th. It’s kind of a relief. Lima’s almost _too quiet_ for her now, and though it’s always lovely to spend time with her dads and her daddy’s family, her apartment feels like home. Just like during Thanksgiving, trying to sleep in her still mostly-soundproofed (naturally, soundproof insulation degrades over time) childhood bedroom had been strangely unsettling the first night. Utterly silent, without traffic noise being vaguely drowned out by an air conditioner or Santana’s fan. The traffic sounds had turned into a kind of white noise on their own soon after she moved to the city, and she didn’t realize they’d taken such a residence in her mind that their absence feels _wrong_.

They’re to be joined that evening by Puck, Sam, Mercedes and Blaine. Artie is, unfortunately, still out of town visiting relatives (to be fair, they’re in Iowa, so his family tends to stay as long as possible to make the most of the travel time and expenses), Mike’s mother made him a doctor’s appointment on New Year’s Day, so he has to stay, and Tina had decided to stay and celebrate New Year’s with Mike. Puck and Sam had decided not to invite any of the more recent New Directions members, because it was sort of a relief that they could just take Sam’s car rather than having to organize a way to borrow a mini-van from anyone.

When she, Kurt and Quinn tumble into the apartment in a pile of heavy coats and luggage, breathing in relief at the warmth, they find Santana and Brittany huddled together on the couch watching _Buffy_. They’re only on Season 1, so Santana’s clearly trying to get Brittany as hooked as the rest of them, but they politely pause so that they can greet the travelers.

Brittany drapes herself over each of them in graceful, delighted hugs, while Santana gives everyone a brief squeeze with one arm. “I’m so stoked you guys are back!” Brittany chirps, “I mean, I’m sad there’s no more sexy time with Santana, but I can’t wait to celebrate New Year’s with all of you!”

Kurt suppresses a shudder, and Santana smirks and doesn’t even look bashful. “Yeah, I’m excited, too,” she admits, “When are the others arriving?”

Kurt pulls out his phone, “Last I heard from Blaine, their ETA is 10pm. It sounds like they’re having a great time together, though. He keeps sending me pictures of the creepy gas stations they stop at or weird road signs or whatever, or sending me cute things that Sam and Mercedes are saying to each other.” He chuckles, “And Mercedes keeps sending me quotes of the lewd or stupid things Puck says. I’m glad they’re having fun and that it’s not snowing.”

Santana nods, “Well, I’ll be at work by then, but tell them I can’t wait to hang out tomorrow.” Her face darkens a bit as she speaks.

“How was your birthday, B?” Quinn asks, purposely changing the subject.

“Oh, it was so good. San took me out for Italian and then we went to look at the giant Christmas tree! We were gonna take a walk in the center park, but it was so cold we decided to just come back here and warm back up with sex.”

This time, Santana does look bashful, but, possibly because Brittany is right there, looking so at her so lovingly, no one even mock-leers at her. Quinn just smoothes things over by pointing to the TV, “Are you just starting Buffy?”

Brittany nods, “Yeah. San got me an _L Word_ box set for my Christmas and birthday present. She made me pack it up in my suitcase and open it here. We tried to watch it, but San just gripes about all the characters. I think it’s hot, though. But I like _Buffy_ , too, so far. I always thought there were probably secret warrior teenage girls—like you, Q—and I’m glad to know I’m right. Plus Giles is hot.”

At this Santana looks horrified, Rachel surprised, and Quinn unsuccessfully stifles giggles. Kurt trembles with suppressed laughter for just a moment before affirming, “He does have a sort of gentlemanly appeal to him, doesn’t he?”

“Totally,” Brittany agrees, “You guys want to watch with us?”

“That sounds like the perfect way to unwind after travel to me,” Rachel smiles, “I’ll join you after I unpack.” Brittany grins back at her. Despite hanging out a lot during the summer, Brittany still baffles Rachel somewhat. She likes her—it’s hard not to, especially with the fact that she was one of the first cheerleaders to stop being rude to her—but she just hasn’t quite figured out whether to worry about Brittany’s sanity or just accept that she’s imaginative.

Kurt and Quinn seem to think unpacking is a good idea as well, because Kurt heads to his room and Quinn follows Rachel into hers. Not that Quinn has much to unpack; she just kind of tucks her luggage next to Rachel’s bed and half-settles onto Santana’s bed before springing up, unnerved, and settling on the end of Rachel’s to watch her unpack. Rachel had washed her clothes at her parents’ house—it was hard to beat not having to find just the right time to get an empty machine in her building—so she extracts clothes, refolds them and puts them away. Quinn just smiles contentedly before slowly sliding back to recline, groaning a little.

“Planes are hell,” she grunts, staring at the ceiling, “I hate not having leg room. I get so cramped.” She slides a hand beneath her body to rub at her lower back.

“It is rather annoying. And before you make a joke about my height, I am tall enough for it to also be uncomfortable for me.”

Quinn smirks, “It’s your inhumanly long legs. I wouldn’t dare mock you.”

Rachel feels heat on her face, but she’s not even sure why. She’s not mad or upset, she’s just…warm. Almost everyone she knows has commented on her legs, but it’s _different_ when it’s Quinn. Her heart thrums once, and she briefly wonders what it would be like if Quinn had said something slightly different, slightly more… _appreciative_. If she’s honest, in high school she always sort of wanted pretty girls like Quinn to reassure her that she was just as attractive, in her own way.

She unfolds and smoothes out a blouse and walks it over to the closet to hang up, watching Quinn from the corner of her eye. The girl is relaxed, lying kind of diagonally on the bed so her face is just next to Rachel’s luggage but her calves are dangling off the side of the bed. Her eyes are closed and she just looks so relaxed.

She’s so unfairly gorgeous.

Quinn opens her eyes and turns to look at her, lips quirking in a half-smile, and Rachel just beams and walks back to her luggage. She unpacks the rest as quick as she can and then shoves her rolling luggage back under her bed. She holds out both hands to Quinn, smiling, and Quinn takes them and allows herself to be pulled to her feet, groaning a little in protest. Rachel laughs at her and slips an arm around her as they head back out to the living room.

Kurt is still in his room—most likely ensuring that it’s spotless for Blaine—and Santana and Brittany are snuggled so close that she’s pretty sure she and Quinn can also fit onto the couch. She helps Quinn down first and then settles as best she can between Quinn and Brittany, pressing herself into Quinn’s side out of necessity. Quinn puts her arm around her and they watch as Willow experiences her very real nightmare of being forced to sing opera. Rachel giggles, “I love this part.”

Eventually Kurt comes out of his room and settles into the armchair, his gaze sweeping along the couch a few times, his lip quirk betraying his mild interest. Rachel rolls her eyes. She always cuddles with Quinn when they watch TV. He should be used to it by now. After awhile, Santana groans and admits she has to take a shower and get ready for work. Kurt suggests they order pizza or something, and Santana agrees, “If you order now, I should have just enough time to eat it before I leave, and it will still be pretty fresh for when the others arrive.”

Quinn forces Kurt to use her credit card to pay for the pizza; Rachel knows he isn’t going to argue, because he’s pretty broke. They all are, really, except, apparently, Quinn. She knows Quinn has a lot of money from her family, but she never really feels right letting her pay for things. She wishes she made enough to be able to buy dinner for Quinn once in awhile.

Santana’s right about the pizza, and she shoves two slices down her throat before kissing Brittany, throwing on her winter coat and heading out the door. About twenty minutes later, Blaine calls Kurt, and he rushes down the stairs to let them into the building. A moment later, they’re piling into the apartment, laughingly calling greetings, and everyone is hugging and giggling and squealing. Rachel feels herself being passed between everyone, going down the line of people to hug, until she falls into Kurt and laughs and hugs him, too, and Brittany, and finally Quinn, and it’s just so silly and funny and she’s _happy_. These people are her real friends. She _has_ real friends.

Kurt is being responsible, verifying that they parked somewhere legal and they’re discussing plans for sleeping arrangements.

“You must be beat,” Kurt smiles, “’Cedes, did you bring the air mattress? I think since there’s only four of you we can fit you all. Blaine will be with me, of course, and there’s the couch.” Moving like a practiced team, Blaine and Kurt approach the coffee table and lift it carefully, carrying it into the kitchen, where it just barely fits. No one can really even fit into the kitchen with the coffee table in there, so Rachel goes in to grab paper plates and the pizza boxes and carries them out into the living room. Sam is inflating an air mattress and Puck is working to tuck everyone’s luggage as out of the way as possible—it’s kind of surrounding Rachel elliptical at the moment. Kurt and Blaine have disappeared, and Kurt’s door is closed.

Mercedes smiles, “I don’t think we’re quite ready to turn in yet, even though, yeah, travel’s exhausting. What are you watching?”

Puck groans, “Oh wait, it’s that show again, isn’t it? The one you made me watch last time?”

Quinn’s eyes light up a little and she grins at Rachel, “You made Puck watch _Buffy_?”

“Ooh, this is _Buffy_?” Mercedes sounds interested now, “Kurt has been going _on_ about the boys in this show.”

Almost on cue, Kurt and Blaine exit his bedroom with their arms wrapped around each other, though Kurt seems a bit too preoccupied to notice that Mercedes had just mentioned him.

“I’d watch it,” Sam offers amiably, “It’s by the guy who did _The Avengers_ movie, right?”

This catches Blaine’s attention, “What is?”

Sam jerks a thumb at the screen, “ _Buffy_. Am I right? Same guy who directed _The Avengers_?”

“San was showing it to me,” Brittany offers, “because _The L Word_ was making her mad,” at this, Blaine and Puck both cover their laughter with coughs, “We can keep watching without her, she won’t mind, she’s seen it.”

Puck rolls his eyes heavily, “Yeah, fine, whatever.”

Naturally, the next episode they start (after the current episode ends in a way that baffles the new arrivals—invisible opponents?) is the drama-heavy Season 1 finale. Everyone sprawls around on the couch, the armchair, the air mattress to watch. And this time, when she sees it, maybe because Quinn is right next to her, but Rachel gets why Quinn might identify with Buffy. Watching Buffy struggle with just wanting to have a normal life, a night at Prom with a boy she likes, while circumstances beyond her control force her to face things she’s too young to have to deal with—like mortality. How much of Quinn’s life in high school was determined by her need to make things normal? And how many terrible things had happened that had reminded her with stark clarity that she _could_ die? This kind of mental struggle, Rachel thinks, probably explains Quinn’s entire Junior year, when Rachel’d been baffled by the fact that Quinn seemed to have just _forgotten_ that she’d been homeless, that she was a _mother_.

Quinn _is_ Buffy, she realizes. Brittany is right. Quinn is a warrior woman struggling with her own destiny, who constantly struggled with circumstances beyond her ability to cope with, but she _had_. Rachel has _no_ idea how she is as well-adjusted as she is right now.

They don’t watch much more, as everyone is pretty tired, and soon there’s a rotation in and out of the bathroom to prepare for bed.

Puck glances at Mercedes, “The air mattress doesn’t look bad, but I promise you their couch is actually really comfortable. You can have that if you want.”

Mercedes snorts, “And what, you gonna spoon with Sam?”

Sam snorts too, and Puck scowls and crosses his arms, “Hey, I’m secure in my masculinity. I could spoon the fuck outta Sam all night and wake up just as badass,” he flexes, which just seems to make everyone laugh at him more.

“That’s about the most eloquent ‘no homo’ I’ve ever heard,” Kurt quips.

“Hey, I’m just looking out for a lady. No homo there, for real,” Puck shrugs.

“Thank you, Puck, but I’ll be fine on the air mattress with my boyfriend, much as I’d enjoy watching you two spoon.”

Puck shrugs, “It’s cool. Like I said, the couch is awesome. Just don’t keep me up with his trouty kisses.”

Mercedes just chuckles and leans into Sam’s side to pat his chest reassuringly. “He’s just jealous,” she purrs at him. Puck snorts, but Sam grins.

After everyone seems ready for bed, they say goodnight and head into their bedrooms. Kurt and Blaine are already snuggling as they walk, and Brittany follows Rachel and Quinn into the other room.

Brittany sighs and flops down on Santana’s bed, “I’m jealous you get to snuggle while I have to wait for San,” she sighs, “But I’m glad I remembered pajamas.”

“Us, too, Britt,” Quinn chuckles. Rachel presses her lips together, thinking of how she and Santana don’t particularly worry about pajamas. Is that even _normal_? And suddenly her bedroom is like a locker room, as Brittany sighs and sits up on Santana’s bed, fishing for her pajamas under the pillow, and Quinn is crouching to get her pajamas out of her bag. As both blondes start to undress, Rachel realizes Quinn’s words weren’t entirely serious. For crying out loud, these girls had been _Cheerios_. Nudity was nothing to them.

Even when visiting each other, though, Quinn had always changed clothes in another room. Rachel doesn’t know if she’s just too tired to care at the moment, or if having Brittany there just makes her more comfortable. Perhaps she hadn’t been sure how Rachel would react. So Rachel struggles to remain as nonchalant as possible when, in truth, even the locker rooms in gym class had been anxiety-inducing. Even though she’d used many dressing rooms in her dance classes and had never been concerned there (though she’d often already been dressed for class before arriving), the locker rooms at school had been very different, cold and cruel and eerie. She was younger than most of her classmates, not to mention a bit of a late bloomer, and she can remember being so embarrassed by her own body in middle school that she’d changed in a bathroom stall. This, she thinks, was probably actually the genesis of the “tranny” insults. They’d just gotten worse when Quinn moved to the district in ninth grade and targeted her more directly than ever before.

But _geez_ , she and Santana were half-naked around each other all the time. Not that she’d ever seen anything, besides which, it has gotten cold enough that she’s started wearing her flannel pajamas. Judging by the pajamas (finally upgraded to a Cheerios t-shirt and sweatpants rather than her boxers and tank top) she’d see dangling over Santana’s bedpost every morning, though, Santana is still sleeping mostly naked, even in winter. She really thinks she should be less anxious about changing clothes in front of Quinn and Brittany.

She can’t help but watch Quinn’s back as she lifts the t-shirt over her head. She’d worn one of the most casual outfits Rachel had ever seen her in, boot cut jeans, v-neck t-shirt and hoodie—good travel clothes, Quinn had explained, loose and comfortable. Rachel’s eyes are drawn to the divot of flesh running the length of Quinn’s spine, the light lines she thinks she can see at Quinn’s lower back—faint scars? Perhaps? Quinn’s so lucky with how well they blend into her flesh. She watches the way her body flares out at her hips and vaguely wonders what Quinn’s waist to hip ratio must be. She marvels _yet again_ that someone who was pregnant and paralyzed within the past three years _should not look that good_.

A glance at Brittany shows that she’s just smiling faintly, looking at both Rachel and Quinn with completely neutral eyes—not perving, not critiquing, just casually observing the way they change clothes and the way their bodies look. It’s almost unnerving sometimes how a being as casually sexual as Brittany can seem so completely asexual at times. Still, Rachel’s suddenly conscious of her own face—she’s sure her expression as she watched Quinn’s back looked _nothing_ like what Brittany looks like now. Her admiration is most likely inappropriate under these circumstances.

By the time Rachel is encased her in flannel pajamas—she’d decided on the striped ones, since they’re not as thick as some of her others, because sharing a bed with Quinn is often warm—Quinn and Brittany are in matching Cheerios sweats and t-shirts, just like Santana’s. It’s almost freaky that all three of them continue to wear the same clothes for the exact same functions, like they really have been fully brainwashed by their years under Sue Sylvester’s command. Brittany slides the covers back and smiles at the other two, “You both look really good. Like, your bodies look healthy.”

“Thank you, Brittany,” Rachel says shyly, “living in the city provides many opportunities for regular exercise.”

Quinn smiles and begins to settle in bed, “And I’m doing my best to fight the freshman fifteen.”

Rachel gives her a reproachful glance, but instead of verbalizing her strange pang of _something_ , asks both of her guests whether they need anything before she turns out the light. In the dim illumination of the streetlights around the curtains, she can see Brittany curling up tight into a little ball, like a kitten, and she makes her way back to the bed easily, where Quinn is on her side, her hands tucked beneath her pillow. Rachel slides in on her side facing her. Their knees knock a few times as she shifts into place, until Quinn smiles a little and shifts onto her back, giving Rachel a bit more room. She turns to gaze at Rachel a little bit more as she shuffles into place.

“Good night, Rachel,” she says quietly, “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

“Me neither,” Rachel smiles, eyes tracing all over Quinn’s face.

She jolts very slightly when Brittany says, “Goodnight, Q, Rach.” It’s not that she… _forgot_ Brittany was there, but it feels there had been a _moment_ there. Quinn’s eyes are amused as she murmurs a goodnight to Brittany, and she has to nudge Rachel with her leg to get her to offer her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles from Computer Magic, “The End of Time,” The Cardigans, “You’re the Storm,” and Purity Ring, “Fineshrine.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Billy: Puck's coworker, about his mom's age, fellow cook at the diner  
> Malcolm: Puck's coworker, fellow cook at the diner, his age, high school dropout


	23. The future's here today

_The future’s here today_

 

And the next day is chaos.

It doesn’t start out quite that way. More like a confusing jumble. When Santana comes home from work, Brittany, in her sleepy state, talks to her a bit too loudly. Rachel wakes up vaguely, just enough to interpret a few words from across the room, but they’re muffled and her mind translates them slowly, like she’s in a womb or a cocoon and it’s not time to emerge yet. Which seems partially true as well, because after several minutes she realizes she kind of is in a cocoon when Quinn shifts slightly against her back and she realizes that, again, they’re cuddling in the small bed. It’s unavoidable, with the size they’re attempting to share, but it’s just so warm and nice, and she’s able to drift back off to sleep despite Santana’s soft whispers and Brittany’s child-like, too-loud sleepy voice. By the time she wakes back up, she can only remember that Santana and Brittany were discussing something that _felt_ important, and kept saying New York.

Rachel wakes up by around 8, which is about when Kurt wakes up to go to work, so she decides to get up herself. After all, if Santana coming home didn’t wake up those in the living room, Kurt most certainly will. Santana has gotten fairly good at creeping around the house so early, but Kurt is somewhat of a morning person, despite what seems to be constant sleep depravation, and is also a bit high-strung, like her, and she knows how difficult it is to be quiet when there’s _so much_ to do.

She untangles herself from Quinn, who shifts and opens her eyes blearily at her before smiling and settling her head against Rachel’s pillow, closing her eyes again. Brittany is wrapped around Santana, practically on top of her, and Santana’s expression is placid in sleep. She exits the bedroom to find Kurt attempting to navigate around the coffee table temporarily in the kitchen, cursing lightly under his breath as he tries to ready his breakfast. She hears the shower running and light shifting in the living room; someone must be awake.

Kurt ends up crouching at one end of the coffee table, where there’s barely enough room for him to eat some toast and have a cup of tea. He tells her quietly that Blaine had decided just to wake up when Kurt did and is in the shower. Rachel sits on the counter next to him, mindful not to swing her feet, as she’ll definitely clock him on the side of the head.

“I wish I didn’t work,” Kurt says, sotto voce, “You do realize we’re never going to get even _near_ Times Square? You guys would have to go in like right now to reserve a spot and I’d never get to you after I get out of work.”

Rachel sighs, “I know. I never really intended to get to Times Square, even with just Quinn and myself. Perhaps someday, but it just doesn’t seem like it will be worth it to stand there all day. Still, we should go out into the city and enjoy the crowds and the atmosphere. Like we did around Halloween.”

Kurt nods a bit distractedly, “So we’re still meeting up after I get out of work?”

Rachel nods, “Yes. We’ll get some dinner all together and just check things out. We can look at the crowd, see how close we can get, but we should watch the ball drop from somewhere inside. Either here, or perhaps there’s a club that’s letting in those 18 and older that is showing the ball drop.”

As Kurt finishes his breakfast and leans as far as he can to slide his dishes into the sink, the shower shuts off and a moment later the bathroom door opens. Kurt squeezes out around the coffee table. “I’m going to see if anyone’s awake and wants the bathroom before I use the shower,” he whispers.

Rachel nods and they peek into the living room, tiptoeing in until they actually see their guests. They discover Puck and Mercedes are awake, and both grin and wave and gesture at Sam, who is snuggled against Mercedes’s side, still apparently deeply asleep. Puck gets up, and Rachel asks whether he’d like her to go to a Dunkin Donuts or something to get some donuts and sandwiches for them all to eat. He nods enthusiastically and she shivers, imagining the weather outside, and heads back into her room to change.

When she comes back in, Quinn wakes up enough to sit up and blink blearily at her, reaching for her glasses on her bedside table. She squints and averts her eyes upon realizing Rachel is getting dressed. “Where are you going?” she whispers.

“To get breakfast for everyone.”

Quinn nods, shudders, and pulls back the sheets, “I’ll come, too. You’ll need help carrying whatever it is.”

She swings her legs over the bed and reaches immediately for her contacts case. Rachel shakes her head as she watches Quinn put in contacts with practiced ease. She can barely understand how she can do this, when her eyes had just been so bleary a moment before, but they get dressed quickly and quietly and pull on their coats. Brittany lifts her head a little as they prepare to leave, and Quinn whispers that they’re going to get breakfast and they’ll try to make sure it stays quiet enough in the living room so Santana can get enough sleep. Brittany nods and nuzzles back into Santana’s neck.

Blaine is exiting Kurt’s bedroom as they exit Rachel’s. He’s dressed, though his clothes are a bit rumpled, and his hair is simply wet, not gelled. But he smiles a little tiredly when he notices they’re dressed. “You’re heading out to get breakfast, right?” he asks, “I’ll come with you.”

Rachel’s sure that he’d much rather be fixing his hair at the moment, but she has a feeling Kurt requested that Blaine accompany them, so she beams and acquiesces, while Quinn eyes him impassively. Rachel puts a hand on Quinn’s forearm and Quinn smiles reflexively. It dawns on Rachel a little bit that Quinn barely knows Blaine; she certainly hadn’t spent the last year or two tagging along on Kurt and Blaine’s coffee dates and movie nights. It doesn’t make sense that Quinn would be unwelcoming of Blaine’s company, however, because she’s never given any indication that she _dislikes_ him. Perhaps it’s Blaine’s typical cheer. Rachel can imagine that his combined with her own could be a little grating.

It’s freezing outside, which isn’t at all surprising, and it turns out Rachel is glad to have both of her friends along. It’s nice to have some company on her trudge down a couple of blocks in the dreary early light, the sun struggling through the streaks of gray clouds in the sky, threatening flurries. She huddles close to Quinn so their shoulders bump as they brave the cold, which feels more acute with how recently they were warm in bed together. Blaine ends up on her other side, and for whatever reason, the cold seems to invigorate him.

About halfway there, Blaine turns to her with a touch of sadness in his eyes and says, “I heard, you know. About how you and Finn are completely done.”

Rachel’s breath catches, more in surprise than in a well of emotion, which is _good_. It means she’s moving on.

“Yes,” she responds matter-of-factly. “It’s what’s best for both of us. I’m moving on now.”

Blaine must feel that he’s overstepped his boundaries, because little frown lines appear between his brows and he jokes, “Well, you know what they say. The best way to get over your ex is to get under the next!”

“Blaine!” Rachel laughs, and next to her, Quinn chuckles quietly. Blaine’s smile reappears, relieved.

When they get there, she lets Quinn and Blaine pick out donut flavors while she gets a variety of egg sandwiches with all kinds of disgusting pig flesh on them. Quinn eyes her carefully, “What are you getting?” Rachel gets a bagel for herself and flashes Quinn a smile, which Quinn returns uncertainly.

By the time they return, Kurt is still in the bathroom, and Puck has figured out how to work the coffee machine so the apartment smells incredible; when they come in, he’s awkwardly straddling the coffee table while stretching up to get mugs out of the cabinet. Brittany is lounging on the couch and Mercedes seems to be gently waking up Sam, who is propped on his elbows blinking sleepily while she smoothes his hair back from his forehead.

They eat breakfast all together with smiles and low chuckles, and Rachel slips back into the kitchen to brew another pot of coffee, since the first isn’t nearly enough for everyone. By the time Kurt is ready to go to work, everyone jumps up to hug and, in the case of Blaine, kiss him goodbye, and he smiles slightly, his cheeks a little pink, “This completely makes up for my depressing and cramped breakfast in the kitchen this morning. See you guys this evening.”

The day passes quickly. Santana wakes up, early for her, a little after noon and eats the last donut. They listen to music, watch TV, talk, laugh. They even play a little bit of Super Smash Bros, in a tournament that quickly turns into epic Quinn vs. Puck matches. By 3, Puck is extracting the alcohol he brought—and he brought a lot—so they do all of the above while tipsy, too.

They go for simple peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, which isn’t all that filling, so they’re pretty drunk by the time they shuffle out of the apartment at 7:30 to attempt to meet Kurt. They’ll be meeting at the last open subway stop on the line, since a good deal of the system is closed down to accommodate the crowds. The subway itself is packed and moves slowly, and Rachel keeps shouting at everyone the name of the stop they’re getting off at in case they’re separated and encourages everyone to use the buddy system. Santana and Puck both roll their eyes, and Mercedes giggles a bit maniacally into Sam’s shoulder as Rachel acts pretty much like a high school chaperone. Only Blaine seems to pay much attention to her, his dark eyes remain trained on Rachel and he tries to stay as close to her as possible.

They make it to their designated subway stop without anyone getting lost in the subway system, but it’s almost impossibly packed here, as well. Rachel surfaces enough to call Kurt, who by this time is probably just getting out of work, and attempts to shout over the noise of the crowd that they’re there waiting for him. Fifteen minutes later, he calls back and they finally find him.

Puck is the first to notice him in the crowd, and jostles through to people to him. Surprisingly, he wraps Kurt in a hug; Kurt’s startled eyes find Blaine’s over Puck’s shoulder. Mercedes stifles more giggles. Puck whispers something, laughs, and drags Kurt back to the others.

Blaine gives him a hug and a furtive kiss as he asks, puzzled, “What did he say to you?”

Kurt shakes his head and grins, “That he’s sorry that Rachel didn’t allow him to bring me any alcohol.”

“I most certainly could not approve of such inappropriate risks,” Rachel butts in, “The streets are full of police and the last thing any of us need is to be arrested for underage drinking on New Year’s.”

Kurt gazes at her and then chuckles into his hand, “Oh god. You are all already drunk, aren’t you.” It’s really not a question.

Rachel sniffs almost haughtily, “At least I am a good enough actress to conceal it.”

Kurt’s expression betrays his heavy skepticism, so Rachel ignores him, and the group pushes their way out of the subway station.

The streets above are just as packed, but they attempt to make their way toward Times Square anyway. It’s not long until they see police barriers and lines of policemen ahead. Rachel absolutely panics and spins on her heel to go the other way. Quinn grabs her arm and laughs, “We’re fine! We’ll be fine. We won’t get any closer.”

They stand in a tight bunch, letting the experience sink in. The crowds of people all around them, jostling into them (Blaine nearly gets knocked over multiple times), the noise, the lights, the buildings. Whatever is happening, they really can’t see or hear much, just the white noise of the crowd and flashes of lights. It’s just a giant mess.

Quinn extracts her camera from her bag and commences taking pictures—of the crowd, of their friends, of the streets. When she lowers it, Rachel feels Quinn shudder slightly. “Are you cold?” she asks, leaning in to whisper in Quinn’s ear. Quinn shudders again, but shakes her head. A possibility dawns on Rachel, “Oh God. Is this triggering your claustrophobia?”

Quinn shakes her head, “No, I promise, I’m fine. But it is…well, a little overwhelming. I’ve never been in a crowd like this and we’re just on the outskirts.”

A group huddle later, and it’s decided that they’ll find a food truck or something else easy to get some dinner, but most people have had enough. It’s impossible to get closer and just not that exciting to watch the mass of people that stretch further than they can see. So they’ll head back and watch the ball drop from the safety and warmth of the apartment, where they can all drink in peace and ring in the New Year together. They push their way back through the crowd in an amoeba form, linking arms and hands.

They decide on a tiny, hole-in-the-wall Middle Eastern place a good number of blocks away that is still serving food despite the steady stream of people in and out of it—though the crowds are thankfully thinner here—and get little Styrofoam trays piled high with falafel, hummus, grape leaves and baklava. There isn’t even enough room for them all to sit inside the tiny place, so they eat as they walk, slowly, mostly because Kurt is lagging. By the time they get to a subway station, everyone’s finished and the cold is really starting to bother them.

Back in their apartment’s neighborhood, Kurt is positively limping. “I should have known better than to break in my new boots on a work day,” he groans. Rachel glances at his shoes; she hadn’t noticed they were new. Must have been a Christmas present.

Puck gets in front of Kurt and crouches, “Come on, man,” he laughs, “I’ll carry you!”

“Seriously?!” Kurt squeaks. He glances at Blaine, who looks shocked, and then wraps his arms around Puck’s neck, “I can’t believe I’m considering this sober.” Puck lifts him, staggers a step. “Oh, god!” Kurt shrieks, clinging tighter, “Tell me you’re not too drunk for this!”

“I’m good!” Puck grunts, “you’re just heavier than you look, bro!”

Soon, Puck is circling the rest of the group as Kurt hangs onto his back, galloping around like a fool. Santana eventually says loudly, “Gee, I’m really tired, maybe if I complain enough, I won’t have to walk either!” But when Sam gamely offers his back, she just laughs at him. Kurt and Puck have no reaction to her ridicule, just continue laughing. Rachel glances at Blaine, who is just wearing a tight smile as he watches the two. Puck puts Kurt down once they get inside the building, apologizing about the steps. Blaine comes forward then to wrap an arm around Kurt’s shoulders as they ascend the stairs.

It’s nicer inside, out of the cold and, as Puck proclaims, where they can drink. They stream the New Year’s celebrations through the Wii and only half pay attention while they sing along to music, laugh, talk. There’s somehow _so_ much to talk about, from what they’re each doing now, to school, to what the New Directions are working on, to Schuester’s wedding, to people Mercedes has met in LA, to high school memories (“Kurt, remember that time you wore a trucker hat and flannel for like a week?” “Puck, your _dress_!” “God, Rachel, remember when you wanted Quinn’s _nose_?!” “Quinn, I’m not gonna lie, girl, you were kinda hot with pink hair.” “San, remember that time we spied on Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury—” “Britt, shh!” “Blaine, your fluffy prom hair!” “I still can’t believe you were in juvie, Puckerman.” “Oh my god I just remembered when Zizes was your manager, Mercedes!” “I cannot _believe_ I busted your car windshield, Kurt, Lord Almighty…” “Oh God, when you were on the football team, Rach! And Mercedes!” “Remember Coach Sylvester’s cannon? That was insane.” “Shit, I just flashed back to Mr. Schue dancing with us at that pep rally, that was disturbing.” “Trouty Mouth!” “Hey, that song was brilliant!” “No comment”). Rachel ensures she remains merely tipsy through the evening and does her best to monitor the drinking of her friends. Quinn stops drinking entirely after one drink, to her surprise, but she still seems to be having a great time, so Rachel’s glad.

By the time they’re counting down to midnight it’s pretty much been decided… _screw_ noise complaints. No one has said anything so far, and when midnight hits, Brittany wraps her legs around Santana’s waist to kiss her, Kurt plants a sloppy kiss on Blaine and Sam and Mercedes trade multiple little chaste kisses and smiles.

Rachel watches, feeling slightly left out, until Puck leans over the back of the couch between her and Quinn and says loudly, “For my single ladies!” and leaves a wet smack on each of their cheeks.

“Gross, Puck!” Quinn laughs.

For her part, Rachel squeals, “Noah!” But she laughs. It’s nice, sort of. She looks at Quinn and grins and leans into her.

Not too much later, it’s time for bed. Their guests will be leaving in the morning, aside from Quinn, so Rachel feels compelled to enforce bedtime, despite eye rolls and mockery. Even Santana gets in bed—it’s not as though she can hang out in the living room. Rachel is on her back in bed, Quinn on her side beside her, listening to the loving whispers across the room as Santana describes to Brittany a beautiful dream she could have, and she turns over to face Quinn, their knees nudging together.

“Quinn?” she whispers.

“Hmm?” Quinn asks, opening her eyes.

“Happy New Year,” Rachel whispers.

Quinn grins shyly, “Happy New Year.”

“I just wanted to say I’m looking forward to it,” Rachel explains, “Last year was just…” she shakes her head, and watches flickers of dark emotion pass over Quinn’s face. So much had happened…to both of them. Rachel had almost gotten married. Quinn had almost gotten _killed_. “Last year was a mess,” she admits, thinking now, about how Quinn is at Yale, and by all accounts, enjoying herself, and how she herself has finally moved on from Finn Hudson, maybe will be ready to open her heart sometime in the next year. “I just know this year will be better than last year,” she finishes.

Quinn just looks at her, a little half-smile on her face. “Yeah,” she breathes, “I think it’ll be a pretty good year. We’re both shaping our futures. I know it will be, Rach. The future is ours. This year is ours.”

Rachel slips an arm around Quinn and burrows into her happily. Quinn sighs and returns the embrace, and Rachel falls asleep with those words in her mind. _The future is ours_.

 

_Of promises and masquerade_

 

He’s probably a little tipsy, because since Blaine got him into bed, all he’s been able to do is talk.

“I can’t wait until you’re here with me later this year,” he says for probably the eighth time. Blaine smiles indulgently and runs a hand through Kurt’s hair. “I mean, I know now that it’s probably not possible for us to live in this city unless we share rooms, so like, the way I see it, we get a three bedroom, and you and I share one, and Britt and Santana, and then Rachel has hers. And we should easily be able to afford that. We shouldn’t have to work as hard as we’ve been working, because, you know, did I tell you? I start my new job in a couple of days. Or is it tomorrow? I don’t know. But I just can’t wait. I miss you all the time, you know. Did you apply?”

Blaine chuckles, “I did, Kurtsy. NYU, Juilliard, NYADA. Plus a few others schools.”

“Backup options, right?”

Blaine shrugs and says, “In a sense. Other good schools I wouldn’t mind going to.”

“In the city?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Oh.” Kurt tries to make sense of this, but then lets it go. Blaine’s applying to so many places, he’s thorough. “I’m glad you have a lot of options. I really should have had backup schools when I applied. I was just so sure that NYADA was all I wanted. I’m sure if my dad and Carole weren’t so focused on the campaign and on the fact that Finn had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, they’d’ve forced me to apply elsewhere. I was stupid. I’m glad you’re not stupid, Blaine. I’m glad you’re gonna be here. All of those school are gonna accept you. You’re a leading man. My leading man.” Blaine smiles, and Kurt continues, “And did Britt finish her applications?”

“She’s still working, but she has some time. She’ll get them in. We’re all helping her—Mike, too. And Tina, since she did a lot of Mike’s applications. He’s helping her prepare for her auditions—which she will get.”

“She’s a dancing queen,” Kurt nods, then cackles.

 Blaine shushes him gently with a kiss, “Get some sleep, honey. We both need it.”

“Okay, okay,” he acquiesces, kissing Blaine again. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Blaine whispers against his temple a moment later.

 

_Tell me something without any lies that cover my feelings_

 

When Tina suggests they do something to celebrate New Year’s, Mike looks at her with surprise. “But that’s not until the end of the month!”

Tina stares in confusion and just as it starts to give way to frustration, Mike grins, “I couldn’t resist. Of course I’d like to ring in the New Year with you. And if I were actually home for the Lunar New Year, I’d celebrate that with you, too.” He kisses her.

She’s surprised, because while Mike had made an effort to branch out from “Asian” activities after she’d complained about them her Sophomore year, he had continued to be very interested in his culture, almost to the point of reverence. She’s not sure she’s ever heard him make a joke about being “too Asian” before, and…it’s a change. She knew college would change Mike, but she didn’t expect to feel so _hurt_ by this first, tiny change.

It’s stupid to feel hurt by that.

Just after midnight on what had just become New Year’s Day, after exchanging celebratory kisses with Mike, his phone rings. He glances at it, grins a bit and answers, “Hey, Kate! Happy New Year!”

They don’t talk long, but Tina watches his face. He’s grinning. And even though one of the first things he says is, “I’m celebrating with Tina,” and then rolls his eyes and says, “No, _not_ Kurt, Tina, my actual girlfriend? Since I don’t have a secret boyfriend?” and he laughs, Tina feels a bit left out. She makes Mike smile all the time, tenderly mostly, lovingly, but she doesn’t make him laugh much.

After a couple minutes he shakes his head, laughs, says goodbye, and hangs up, still grinning a little, “Sorry,” he says, “Just Kate, wishing me a Happy New Year.”

Tina nods, “I kind of figured,” she says, slightly coldly. Mike twists his mouth, clearly not sure what to say, and Tina finally says hesitantly, “Tell me about Kate and Sandra.”

Mike looks perplexed, but he does. He even gets out his laptop and shows Tina their Facebooks. Tina can’t help but notice that they’re both…pretty. They have dancer’s physiques, obviously, as it is dance school. Sandra appears to be of Indian descent, while Kate is a tall Amazonian blonde. She hadn’t seen them because Mike didn’t allow pictures of himself to be tagged on Facebook, due to his parents having access to it (literal access; they had his password), so she’d never seen pictures of them all hanging out, but they’re always laughing together, with other people—more statuesque dancer women and groups of men, most coiffed and dressed in ways that screamed gay.

Tina feels painfully jealous after a minute and finally says, “They’re gorgeous.”

Mike shrugs, a touch helplessly, “I guess so,” he agrees half-heartedly.

Tina stares at him a moment, “No, seriously, Mike. You have to be attracted to these girls. There’s just no way.”

Mike looks trapped and holds up his hands, “Tina, calm down. What is this about? I’m just friends with these girls. Please, trust me.”

“I know that. I do. I just…” Tina squeezes her eyes shut, “This is getting hard. I keep having these _thoughts_. Like, things I might do if I were single.” She shakes her head rapidly, “I love you, I really do, but it’s just getting so hard to be so far away from you. And to hear _you_ talk, you’re coping just fine, even staring at what would be _temptation_ for anybody else on the planet every day and you’re just…you’re _fine_! You don’t even think about them!”

Mike meets her eyes and says softly, “I want you to listen to me a second, because I need to apologize. I lied to you, during Thanksgiving. Of course I want other girls sometimes, Tina, I’m a human being, and a teenage boy. But every day, I make a choice, and I make the choice to love and be with you. Every single day. And for me, it’s not a difficult one. It’s human to want other people, but it’s ethical to honor our commitment to each other. For me, it’s the difference between being a human and being a man.”

Tina stares at him, and overwhelming love for him stabs her in the heart, but guilt remains. She takes a shaky breath. “What if…what if I can’t stop the thoughts I’m having? I don’t…I don’t _want_ any other men but you, but I…I keep thinking about…something you _can’t_ give me.”

He closes his eyes a moment and then says, almost painfully, “Do you…want to take a break? Revisit this relationship later?”

Tina doesn’t even think before she repeats, “No! I love you, Mike. I don’t want to give up on you.”

Mike’s jaw is tight and he nods stiffly. He swallows thickly, “I don’t want you to have any doubts about us. But. I understand what you’re asking me. If you do anything…don’t tell me.” The croak of his voice betrays him. He doesn’t like the idea.

But he loves her.

“What will you do?” she asks softly.

He shrugs, “The same I have been. Choosing you. Every day.”

“I’m so sorry,” she sobs, suddenly wracked with guilt and feeling out of control.

He holds her, “It’s okay. I understand, I think.”

Somehow, it feels both like she’s stabbing him in the heart and that’s it’s okay that she does. But the way he holds her, that will always make her feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Shiny Toy Guns, “Rocketship,” We Are The World, “Clay Stones,” and A Band of Bees/The Bees, “Listening Man.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Sandra: One of Mike's closest friends at school  
> Kate: One of Mike's closest friend at school


	24. And the cold wind is hitting your face and you're gone

_And the cold wind is hitting my face and you’re gone_

 

Everyone is awake in the morning when it’s time to see Puck, Blaine, Brittany, Sam and Mercedes off, even Santana. Brittany had decided it would be more fun to drive back with them rather than fly home (anticipating the possibility that Brittany might miss a flight home, her parents had given her a credit card and let her decide when to get a flight, so she’s not wasting money on an unused plane ticket). They basically just want to get on the road before noon, so that Sam, Blaine and Brittany can get home before it gets ridiculously late and do any homework they neglected before school the next day. Puck just asks for some coffee and assures the hosts that they’ll grab breakfast on the way home, and by 11, the car is loaded and the goodbyes are beginning.

This time, it hurts a little more, because no one is quite sure when they’ll hang out again. It may not be until the summer, and even in the summer, it’s not as though everyone will be hanging around in Lima; Santana, Kurt and Mercedes, at least, all have commitments in their current cities that will likely keep them there. If anyone is lucky enough to have matching spring breaks, maybe that will yield something, but there are no guarantees.

It’s like a harsh reminder that these people are important to her when Quinn says goodbye to them. Sam wraps her in a hug first, and it’s nice, he was always a great hugger. Sam was the first ex that she’d really successfully befriended, because he was so forgiving and sweet. And when he’d allowed her to help him and his family when they were homeless, when he’d trusted her with the secret he hadn’t necessarily wanted her to even know, they had grown close. Things hadn’t been smooth when he returned, because Quinn had been in such a sad state, and Sam dismissing her and her “rich white girl problems” had hurt far more than she thinks he even knew. But they’d moved on from there, too, with their mutual faith, their small measure of trust in each other, and the fact that they interacted without a hint of lingering sexual attraction—for obvious reasons in Quinn’s case, and because Sam was so focused on Mercedes. Sam’s a great guy, and Quinn knows that they’ll forever have each other’s backs if need be. She trusts him more than most guys.

Mercedes is next, and Quinn is grateful that she’s had a chance to rebuild her friendship with Mercedes. She still feels awful that they really didn’t speak Junior year, after everything Mercedes and her family did for her, but, though they’ve never spoken about it directly, she is certain that Mercedes understands and forgives her. And she’s certain Mercedes knows that Quinn visited her family around Thanksgiving, but she hasn’t said anything, and Quinn’s grateful. It just proves that Mercedes understands how Quinn needs to operate about this. And since God Squad Senior year, they’ve been growing closer again, and Mercedes is someone she tries to ensure she texts once a week—she pretty much only hears from Rachel more frequently, because Santana and Brittany are so busy missing each other (besides which, she sees Santana).

Blaine is, clearly, the person she’s least close to. His hug is warm and happy, much like him, and Quinn realizes as they smile at each other that Blaine has been very lucky. She remembers vaguely hearing Kurt talk about a time when Blaine had been harassed for being gay, but looking at him now, Quinn never would have guessed. He’s cheerful and out, and Quinn thinks that, perhaps, something like that could be possible for her. Because neither of them are like Kurt. Both could pass for straight, but Blaine lives openly. Quinn only hopes she can do the same. Someday. When she’s ready. Which she’s _not_ , because just the thought of telling anyone else has her trembling.

Brittany squeezes her fiercely, and Quinn returns it. She misses Brittany, painfully some days. Brittany was her first friend when she moved to Lima from Belleville. She’d enrolled in cheer camp the summer before ninth grade—before even entering her new school—and Brittany had been the first to talk to her. Quinn hasn’t always been kind to Brittany, and regrets the way she’d encouraged Brittany to be cruel as a Cheerio. Brittany could be cruel on her own, sure, but manipulating her for Quinn's benefit never felt good. But Quinn misses her sweet disposition among friends, her eagerness to make her friends smile, and her weird, quirky brain. Life just isn’t the same without Brittany’s stories about Lord Tubbington’s adventures.

And Puck…his hug is firm and strong. It’s hard to conceptualize what she thinks of Puck. Despite the fact that she generally _likes_ Sam more than Puck, Puck is the closest to her of all her exes. And even though they tend to butt heads any time they talk, and she generally thinks of him as a chauvinistic, idiotic jerk, she loves him, a little. Not romantically, or sexually, but with that little piece of her heart that clings to Beth and can’t believe they created such a beautiful human being. In a really stupid, fucked-up way, she’s grateful it was Puck that fathered her little girl. And because of Beth, she thinks they’ll probably try to support each other all their lives.

But she knows she’s not the only one feeling so overwhelmed by this. For Santana, it includes the love of her life and two former beards that she seems to regard quite similarly to Quinn; she always had a soft spot for Sam and though she and Puck clashed just because they were too similar, they were fond of each other. Quinn’s not sure how she feels about Blaine, but she knows she has a ton of respect and admiration for Mercedes. For Kurt, his perfect man, his almost-brother and his best friend are leaving. And Brittany, who he always shared a weird kinship with, even before they had that weird fling, and Puck, who he seems to genuinely _like_ in a way he definitely hadn’t in high school. For Rachel, Mercedes is one of her best friends, Brittany grew close to her, too. She and Sam don’t know each other well, but she and Blaine are freakishly similar sometimes, and it only seems to make them closer, unlike the way it makes Santana and Puck clash. And Puck is the guy who, after a certain point, always made sure to support Rachel. Quinn reflects he was probably kinder to Rachel than he ever was to her, and she gave birth to his _child_ , for God’s sake. She’ll never quite understand how their Jewish bond works.

She averts her eyes as she watches Santana place desperate kisses all along Brittany’s jaw, and Kurt hold Blaine flush against him, hard, for a long, long moment. It’s hard to see that kind of intimacy and not long for it, and she can’t afford to have that kind of longing right now.

Then, the guests are leaving, and Quinn stands beside Rachel as they wave them out of the building. Santana trembles lightly and struggles to contain her tears as she watches Brittany, and Kurt’s sad eyes follow Blaine.

Once they gone, Santana sighs heavily and announces she’s going to take a nap and Kurt just pads silently to his bedroom and closes the door softly. Rachel gives Quinn a sad smile and sighs, “I’m glad you’re still here.”

“Me, too,” she smiles back.

Quinn will be in New York for several more days. Her dorm technically doesn’t open until the 9th, but she’ll be heading back early, on the 5th, because of Stephanie. She’s getting her wisdom teeth taken out, and because of some weird qualification in her insurance, she needs to have the surgery in Connecticut to stay in the network. She wants adequate time to recover before classes start, so she’d asked permission to come back early. The resident director of their dorm is already planning to be there, and acquiesced to the request, though they will need to visit a different dining hall on campus until the dorms officially reopen; the one in their building will be closed. Quinn is coming to keep an eye on Stephanie as she recovers.

But for now, she gets to enjoy New York.

Although, life will go on around her. Santana works that night, and Kurt and Rachel work the next day. She’d kind of hoped that she and Rachel might go out and enjoy the city today, but when Rachel confides quietly that she would feel bad leaving Kurt and Santana when they’re clearly upset, Quinn agrees that they should stick around. And so they settle on the couch to do what they typically do when they hang out—argue over whether to watch _Ally McBeal_ or _The X-Files_. Quinn preemptively turns off her phone, just in case Stephanie tries to blow it up like she has so often this break.

Quinn does like _Ally McBeal_. It’s funny, kind of charming, and she identifies some with Ally—it’s hard no to, she’s _designed_ so that ambitious women will like her. But she pretends to think it’s ridiculous to tease Rachel, even though Rachel always notices when she smiles and laughs along. Likewise, Rachel always groans about how creepy _The X-Files_ is, but always gets so into it that she stomps her foot and asks Quinn “Why can’t Scully just open her mind to the possibility of extraterrestrials when it’s _so obvious_?!”

Kurt eventually emerges from his room and gives them a wan smile before sitting with them, and when Santana comes out of the bedroom a few hours later after her nap, her face brightens a little to see that everyone is there, so Quinn ends up glad that they decided to stay in. Not to mention, the way she can hear the wind blowing outside, it looks pretty brutal out.

Quinn anticipates spending much of the next few days reading while her friends go about their daily lives, which is fine with her, but several hours into the 2nd, when Rachel and Kurt are both at work and Santana is still asleep, Quinn tosses aside her copy of _Wicked_ (well, not _her_ copy, she’d borrowed it from Rachel’s shelf, because she’d secretly wanted to read it for awhile, but didn’t want to admit that to Rachel) and finds herself opening the cabinet under the sink in the bathroom until she finds a bleach spray and a sponge.

She doesn’t want to be an ungracious guest, and she’s been trying to contribute for meals whenever she visits so they don’t end up spending much feeding her, but she wants to do _more_. Their apartment is actually cleaner than it had been around Rachel’s birthday; Santana must have made an effort to clean up before all the guests arrived. But growing up, Quinn’s house was always kind of absurdly clean, and though she hasn’t said anything, her friends’ messy apartment makes her wince occasionally.

She remembers her mother teaching her all the different ways to clean—how to polish the silver, or use oil soap on the wooden furniture, the different dusting agents to use on different surfaces, the method of mopping one’s way out of a room. Simple stuff. She, Frannie and her mother had been a housecleaning force until around the time Quinn—or Lucy—turned eleven. Then, her father had decided to begin hiring a housecleaner—it had been around the same time he’d started hiring a gardener, too. Quinn isn’t entirely sure why he’d made the decision, but Judy hadn’t seemed to mind at first. Though Quinn thinks her mother had ended up getting quite bored, however, because it was around then that she’d begin to come home to find her mother a bit drunk and watching soap operas.

But Quinn knows how to clean, and clean well. She is finishing scrubbing the stove—pretty much the only thing left is to vacuum the rug in the common room, which she doesn’t want to do while Santana is still asleep—when Santana trudges sleepily out of the bedroom.

“Fabray,” Santana grunts in greeting, turning her attention to the coffee pot. She stops and then turns around, folding her arms. “Wait, what the fuck are you doing?”

“A favor,” Quinn answers, “I just want to help out. You know, considering how often I’m here.”

Santana watches her spray and scrub the stove for a moment, then snorts, “Jesus, you really are a housewife.”

“Kindly fuck off,” Quinn returns cheerfully, beaming. Santana snorts at the uncharacteristic language and turns back to her coffee machine, and Quinn’s smile turns genuine as she finishes the stove. How Santana has made being a total asshole a charming trait, Quinn will never quite know.

Quinn then vacuums, which makes Santana glare and wince, but Quinn just nudges her feet with the vacuum until she rolls her eyes and moves them so Quinn can finish. When Quinn finally feels like the house is clean, she sighs and plops next to Santana, curled up with her Nook on the couch, and picks up her book. She sees the elliptical and shakes her head, “I forgot about that thing,” she mutters, gesturing to it. “Next time I get antsy, don’t expect me to be your maid, I’ll just use that thing.”

Santana rolls her eyes, “I hate that damn thing.”

Quinn raises an eyebrow, “It is kind of awkward in the sitting room,” she concedes.

“No,” Santana grumbles, “It’s that it’s too cold and too dark for me to go running. I tried using that thing and I just hate it. It’s fucking boring. I don’t know how Rachel uses it every day. I can’t wait until spring when I can actually run again. In the meantime, I’d better not balloon up. My ass doesn’t need to be as big as yours.”

Quinn just ignores Santana’s attempted slight—it doesn’t even phase her anymore—and runs a critical eye down Santana’s body. She doesn’t _look_ different. Her arms have even stayed toned—maybe from her work. Still, it surprises her, with how often she just feels the _need_ to run that Santana isn’t doing _something_ over the winter. Then again, she thinks to most of the times she’s visited and how she knows she’ll inevitably find Santana on the couch.

So “You work tonight?” is what she says instead of anything related to exercise.

Santana sighs, “No.”

Quinn arches her other eyebrow, “No? I figured you’d be working until I left.”

 “Yeah, I’d assume so, too,” Santana grumbles, “I’ve only been scheduled for four days this week, three days next week. Everyone says it’s normal for hours to be cut in January. Wish I’d known that before I spent my December overtime money on Christmas.”

Quinn frowns, “That sucks. Why are the hours cut?”

Santana rolls her eyes, “Damned if I know. I guess business is always slow after New Year’s. It’s supposed to pick back up in February so I guess I’ll just try to be even more frugal than normal.”

Kurt makes it back home first, explaining tiredly that Rachel came home with him, but went downstairs to check on the availability of a washing machine. His eyes are exhausted, his shirt stained with food, and “Oh my god,” he groans, “My feet are _killing_ me. And I feel so disgusting.”

Santana gives him a sympathetic smile, “That good a first day, huh?”

Kurt rolls his eyes, “It was awful. Bussing is horrendous. I’ll never be able to wear this shirt again. I can’t wait to start serving, at least the tips might make it worth it. But Jesus I don’t know how those servers manage to remember everything.” He tugs off his stained shirt to reveal his undershirt and falls into the recliner. He doesn’t move for a full three minutes before finally sitting up and taking off his shoes. Quinn winces when she notices he’s wearing some kind of boot that looks much more fashionable than functional, but at least the shoes appear to be clean.

When Rachel comes upstairs just as Kurt’s shoes come off, she chirps greetings to everyone and then fully squeals when she notices what Quinn is reading, “Oh my goodness, Quinn, I’m so thrilled you’re reading what is undoubtedly one of my very favorite books! How far are you? I know it starts slow. In fact, it maybe kind of ends a little bit slow as well, but it’s such a fascinating take on morality and race and social class, don’t you think?”

Quinn just smirks faintly and asks, “Have a good day at work?”

Rachel takes a deep breath, clearly trying to reign in her enthusiasm, then says, “It went well, thank you!  We were a little slow. And it is much more fun when Kurt is there with me.”

Kurt leans over the edge of the recliner then and announces, “Now that we’re all here, I’d like to call a house meeting!”

“Oh, certainly!” Rachel responds, looking surprised, “Let me just…” she takes off her coat and goes into the bedroom to take off her shoes, coming back out in socks. She settles between Quinn and Santana on the couch and smiles expectantly at Kurt, who stands in front of the recliner, winces, then thinks better of it and settles back down. Rachel eyes his feet with a sympathetic gaze.

Kurt, however, no longer looks so exhausted, in fact as he inhales to begin speaking, his face lights up. “I want to discuss next year,” he gushes, “I’ve been talking to Blaine and I think that we should plan to find a three bedroom apartment.” He looks at Santana, “Brittany is planning to come to New York as well, correct? That’s what Blaine says.”

Quinn had overheard Santana and Brittany talking about it a little bit one morning in bed, so she’s not surprised when Santana nods, “Yeah. She’s working on applications for several dance programs at different colleges.” She hesitates, “She’s…trying to be realistic, though. She’s not entirely sure college is for her, even performing arts college, which I’m trying to convince her she can do, though she’s still not sure she’ll be accepted. But there are dance studios she can go to that can get her some professional connections and experiences and she’s also applying at a couple schools outside of New York that Mike recommended. But, I think she wants to come here. It’s looking pretty likely, but not set in stone.”

Kurt nods fervently, “Blaine, too. We talked about it and he’s applied to several schools up here. He’s coming, too.” He smiles widely, “So, the way I see it, it will be even easier to afford to live here with five of us in three rooms.”

Rachel nods, “That sounds lovely. Not that I don’t like sharing with you, Santana,” she adds quickly.

Santana scoffs, “Please. We both know it’s not ideal. But, I’ll admit, it’s easier than I thought.”

Rachel grins widely, and Kurt clasps his hands together, “Oh my goodness, this is so exciting. I can’t wait to have even more of my favorite people here!”

Santana laughs, “When have I ever been one of your favorite people?”

“I must admit it took some time,” Kurt smiles, “But you qualify now. I’ve always adored your girlfriend, though.”

Santana sniffs, “Yeah, so much you made out with her,” she grumbles. Kurt just kind of shrugs apologetically and Rachel shoots Kurt a guilty glance.

Kurt holds up a hand to her and says, “Don’t even start apologizing about you and Blaine. I never want to think about that again.” Rachel tries to smile, but it falls a little flat.

Quinn has fallen into a little routine as she visits. Breakfast with Rachel and Kurt, who then head off to work. Reading or watching TV until Santana wakes up, then fighting over what to watch or reading together on the same couch. She’s surprised, because she doesn’t remember Santana being much of a reader, but she’s been devouring her Nook. Her routine finishes off as Santana begins to get ready to go to work herself, and Kurt and Rachel come home. They put together dinner and talk and laugh and watch TV together.

Though Rachel is her best friend and she looks forward to time with her more than anything, she always perks up happily when Santana comes out of her room in the afternoons. Santana had been her best friend, kind of by default, through most of high school, and they used to spend a lot of time watching TV or movies together. Reading together is different, but nice in a strange way. Santana doesn’t tell Quinn what she’s reading and doesn’t seem at all interested in _Wicked_ , which is fine. Quinn’s not sure how she feels about the novel. Elphaba frustrates and fascinates her, because of the sacrifices she makes and the changes she forces herself to endure that Quinn struggles with. Perhaps that aspect hits close to home. But Glinda is worse. She winces throughout the entire time she’s known as Galinda, because _that_ girl does hit close to home, but she doesn’t identify more with Glinda, when she becomes “ _good_ ,” so…what does that make her?

Something about Santana is different, though. She figures it’s just the influence of Santana’s work, which, as she’s heard Santana say a million times, gives her no reason to try to look nice. Nice clothes will be ruined. She’s already had to get Kurt to darn a hole in one of her pants pockets. But she also can’t remember seeing Santana with so little makeup. She goes to work wearing no more on her face than concealer and mascara. And when Quinn asks her if she wants to go grab dinner, or head downtown, she just shifts uncomfortably and says she won’t have time before she needs to get ready for work, no matter what time it is.

Santana’s different. Maybe she’s grown up, trying to be responsible, but whatever the change is, it makes Quinn frown. _I mean, she’s even nice now_.

 

_Do you cry out in your sleep?_

 

The day she is set to leave for New Haven, she and Rachel spend the afternoon in the city.

They’re mostly looking for cheap or free things to do, and they do actually go to the Rockefeller Center to look at the tree. Rachel’s eyes are bright and her smile wide, and Quinn can’t help but smile herself at the giant tree. The holidays may be wrapping up, but she still feels a little jolt of powerful feeling when she sees it.

But when Rachel’s teeth start chattering, they agree that they should find something they can do inside. To Quinn’s surprise, Rachel enthusiastically agrees to visit the Fashion Institute of Technology museum when she reluctantly suggests it. She says Kurt has been trying to make her go for awhile, but she’s afraid if she goes with him, he’ll glibly hurt her feelings, but she trusts Quinn not to do the same. All the same, Rachel’s fashion sense still borders on strange, and is different than what’s considered fashionable at large, but perhaps, Quinn thinks, that doesn’t mean she’s not interested in it. She also reminds herself that Rachel has been working at a clothing store with Kurt. Certainly she’s absorbing fashion knowledge in the setting like that.

The fashion on display turns out to be equally strange in many different ways, because so much of it is impractical runway fashion rather than everyday fashion, so it turns out they can both make comments and giggle about the exhibits without worrying. Afterwards, they get some dinner, and then head back to the apartment to get Quinn’s luggage, and then Quinn says goodbye to Santana; Kurt is at work. It’s less bittersweet to say goodbye there, because she knows she’ll see them before too long. She makes Santana promise to give Kurt a hug for her, which makes Santana roll her eyes and say “I’ll try,” and that’s the best she can ask for. And then Rachel accompanies her to the train station and leans into her, hugging her for a very long moment, thanking her for visiting, and Quinn absolutely does not want to leave. But she smiles and adjusts the beanie on Rachel’s head, promises her they’ll see each other soon, and departs.

It’s kind of a late train back to New Haven, at least later than she’s taken so far, but she figures it’s not a big deal. She texts Lulu her ETA and the response makes her snort.

 

 **Lulu: Oh thank god. Steph’s driving me**  
**nuts and she won’t stop asking when**  
**you’re gonna be here. Please come take**  
**her off my hands?**

Quinn feels slightly guilty for dawdling in New York, but laughing at Lulu’s misfortune is her primary response. Stephanie can certainly be a handful. She figures, she’s dealt with Stephanie texting every five minutes all break, so Lulu can have a turn. At least it seems Stephanie is too loopy to use her phone at the moment.

Quinn makes it back to New Haven at around 9:30 at night and texts Lulu to let her know she’s back and on her way to the dorm. She walks into her dorm, drops her luggage and sighs. The room is in the same slightly disheveled state as when she left, except for some clothes on the floor. She’s about to kick Stephanie’s bra back on her side of the room when she stops. And stares.

And wonders, have Stephanie’s breasts always been this big?

Unable to stop her curiosity, she picks it up and reads the tag. 36D.

Quinn stares. She has been furiously trying _not_ to notice her roommate’s breasts. Luckily, she had a lot of practice from being on the Cheerios, controlling her wandering eye, at least, she thinks so. She can remember frequently stopping herself from looking where she shouldn’t all through high school. And she has always politely turned away when Stephanie comes back from a shower, which, of course, Stephanie teases her about sometimes. “Oh, Quinn, you’re so modest and innocent!” Which, _right_ , that doesn’t make Quinn roll her eyes, because Stephanie has no idea about Quinn’s life in high school.

Quinn swallows roughly as she thinks back to when Stephanie taught her to play _Starcraft_ , how close she sat. It’s probably the closest they’ve been and she can remember, vividly, the light press of the swell of Stephanie’s breast against her arm.

There’s the sound of a key in the door and Quinn tosses the bra away hurriedly and then Lulu is there, opening the door and guiding Stephanie inside. Lulu smiles warmly, but Stephanie grins tiredly and falls into Quinn. Quinn watches her breasts until her eyes cross and then she’s _feeling_ them, pressed up against her own torso, as Stephanie squeezes her. She swallows and rolls her eyes at Lulu, trying for casual.

Stephanie is rambling unintelligibly about how much she’s missed Quinn, and Lulu just looks at them wryly. Quinn gently disengages herself from Stephanie and takes Stephanie’s student ID card and room key from Lulu.

“Thanks for taking her to the dentist and watching her,” she tells Lulu.

Lulu shrugs, “No problem. I’ll tell you, though, I’m not looking forward to getting mine pulled after watching her mope all day.”

Quinn shrugs, “I’m lucky enough not to have them.” At Lulu’s glare, she shrugs and smiles slightly, “What can I say, I’m highly evolved.” As Lulu flicks her eyes up and down Quinn’s form and seems to accept this, Quinn wants to laugh. Sure, she looks pretty highly evolved after braces, contacts, cosmetic surgery and heavy exercise.

Lulu meets her gaze again rolls her eyes playfully, “Lucky you. Anyway, Stephanie’s still pretty hopped up on painkillers. They gave her some Vicodin for the afternoon and another dose to take tonight, but she should be fine with like extra strength Tylenol tomorrow. They say it was an easy, clean extraction. She slept for a bit of the afternoon, but she’ll probably sleep tonight no problem, too.” She reaches into her shoulder bag to take out a little orange pill case and a bottle of Tylenol, as well as some cotton wads, “So here’s that last dose of Vicodin she should take before bed tonight.”

Quinn nods and takes those too, while Stephanie leans against her bed. “Great. Thanks. I’ll keep an eye on her,” Quinn assures Lulu, who grins.

“Thanks for coming back to New Haven early. My house isn’t the best place for someone to recover. My brothers will probably be up half the night doing band practice. Besides, I’m supposed to go to my boyfriend’s tonight,” she says, her mouth twisting a little guiltily.

Quinn is about to assure her again that it’s not a problem, but Stephanie announces, her words thick from the cotton wedged into her jaw, “I don’t like your boyfriend.”

Lulu looks a little surprised and frown lines appear between her eyebrows, “I’m…sorry to hear that,” she responds quietly.

“All he does is whine at you,” Stephanie starts.

Quinn interrupts, “I’m going to get you some water, Stephanie, so you can have that Vicodin, and then it’s bedtime, okay?”

“Yes, mom,” Stephanie mutters.

Quinn walks out with Lulu, “Sorry about that,” she mutters.

Lulu smiles a little tremulously, “No, it’s okay,” she says quietly, “I get the impression none of you like him much. I know I spend a lot of time with him, but I love him, you know?”

Quinn just nods a little, refusing to admit that she kind of agrees with Stephanie. She doesn’t know for sure how his conversations with Lulu go, but she just gets the _feeling_ that he guilt trips her about the time she spends with them. With her _friends_. That just seems wrong.

Quinn waves goodbye to Lulu as she heads down the stairwell and fills up a cup at the water fountain in the hall (Stephanie is picky about food, and has always claimed the fountain water tastes best). When she gets back, Stephanie is perched on the edge of her bed smiling tiredly. Quinn gives her the water and shakes the Vicodin out into her palm. Stephanie spits out the wads of cotton into the trashcan and swallows the pill, finishing off the water.

“You ready for bed?” Quinn asks, and Stephanie nods distractedly. “Where are your pajamas?”

Stephanie gestures vaguely toward her dresser and, swallowing, Quinn tries the top drawer. It’s packed full of bras, panties, socks and, yes, a pair of pajamas. Quinn extracts them and hands them to Stephanie, raising an eyebrow. “You got that?”

“Sure,” Stephanie mumbles. Quinn turns around, mechanically unpacking her own bags while Stephanie gets dressed.

By the time she’s mostly unpacked, Stephanie is curled up on her side, staring at her with heavy-lidded eyes. Quinn smiles gently, “Need anything?”

Stephanie blinks and shakes her head slightly, then murmurs quietly, “Are you going to sleep soon?”

Quinn shrugs a little, “I’m not very tired. Will the light bother you?”

Stephanie shakes her head again, but continues to watch Quinn. Quinn murmurs a goodnight and turns off the overhead light, turning on her computer and desk lamp.

Twenty minutes later, she’s in the process of uploading some pictures from New Year’s onto Facebook and she happens to glance up. Even in the dim light, she can see that Stephanie is still laying on her side, staring at her. Quinn frowns. “Are you okay? I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Stephanie hesitates for a long moment and then says, “When you come to bed…can you sleep with me?” Quinn’s stomach drops a little and anxiety courses through her. She tries to figure out a way to ask Stephanie what in the world she’s asking when Stephanie continues, “I just…I’ve had bad nightmares all my life, and…I’m scared. With how little control I have of my brain, that if I have one, I won’t be able to push it away like I learned. I just want to feel safe.”

Quinn chews her lip fervently and…well, she figures this could very easily be true. But she can’t deny that her heart is thudding with anxiety and uncertainty and a tiny part of her brain is whispering _Are you really going to fall for that?_

She sets aside her computer and, still in her street clothes, approaches Stephanie’s bed. Stephanie gives her a tired smile and scoots back, and Quinn slides between the covers. It’s almost like she’s on autopilot, she doesn’t even know _what_ she’s doing.

Stephanie scoots close and Quinn wraps an arm around her. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Stephanie breathes. She tilts her head up and her nose nudges Quinn’s, sliding against hers a few times. Quinn’s breath hitches, but their lips don’t meet. There are just… _Eskimo kisses_.

“I have such a girl crush on you,” Stephanie whispers thickly, lowering her head to the pillow and closing her eyes with a note of finality.

Quinn swallows as her stomach flutters anxiously and stays where she is, not moving. She’s not tired. Her light is still on. She’s not particularly comfortable. Her jeans are bunched awkwardly around her legs. But Stephanie is drifting off to sleep in her arms and she’s just…

She doesn’t even _know_ what.

It’s hours before she falls asleep. She barely moves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles from Robyn, “Be Mine,” and Joy Division, “Love Will Tear Us Apart.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate and closest friend at Yale  
> Lulu: In Quinn's circle of Yale friends, lives in town


	25. I'm going where my body leads me

_I’m going where my body leads me_

 

When Quinn wakes up in the morning, it’s all she can do to not panic, but she reminds herself forcefully that nothing actually _happened_ and that Stephanie was a bit whacked on painkillers, and that maybe none of it meant anything _anyway_ because…

She shifts a bit to get out of bed and Stephanie opens her eyes and smiles warmly. “Hey,” she murmurs, her words slurring with sleep. She winces and brings a hand up to her jaw. “Thanks…for staying with me,” she gets out, careful not to move her jaw much.

“No problem,” Quinn says neutrally, “Let me get you your Tylenol.”

Stephanie nods.

Quinn spends the next two days taking care of Stephanie.

It’s mostly fine. They play video games and watch TV, and don’t go far. On the second day, Lulu comes over in the evening to watch TV with them. She doesn’t let Stephanie leave the building and instead goes to get soup and applesauce from the dining hall across campus for her.

And she tries to ignore what happened, tries to act normal. Tries to forget how her body trembled, how it felt to have Stephanie pressed against her in a way that felt so different from when Rachel did because Rachel’s intention were always _friendly_ and this was _ambiguous_ and _interesting_ and _frightening_. She’s not sure how well it works because when Lulu comes over, Stephanie seems suddenly disgruntled and Lulu seems to sense _something_ , and looks puzzled for most of her visit, and she makes an excuse to leave. But then, maybe Stephanie is feeling guilty for saying what she said about Lulu’s boyfriend.

By the third day, Stephanie seems to be feeling much better. Her jaw isn’t swollen, she wakes up without any need for Tylenol, and she decides to brave the dining hall with Quinn for breakfast, where she manages scrambled eggs, bacon and bread without issue.

When they get back, Quinn claims, “I need to head to the library for a bit. And now that I know you’re not about to die, I think I feel okay leaving you alone for awhile.”

Stephanie tries to smile, “Okay,” she agrees, “But when you get back, I demand some game time.”

Quinn smiles, “Sure.”

She spends the whole day at the library. Or, multiple libraries, because the one she normally uses closes early because of break, so she heads to the medical library afterwards.

She mostly reads, but she spends some time on Facebook, and a bit of time being invisible on GChat talking with Santana and Rachel; Rachel is stressing about her new semester starting next week and the play that is going on at the end of the month, and Santana is fairly quiet. It takes her about five minutes to respond to any message of Quinn’s.

She also catches Sean on GChat and asks if he’s going to be back tomorrow; it’s the day the dorms officially open. He says he isn’t because he’s been working all break and wants to earn as much as he can, and the last time he talked to Steve, he was also planning to be back on Sunday instead. Quinn feels a jolt in her stomach. She brushes it off by joking with Sean that Stephanie will throw a fit that they won’t get any good gaming time in before classes start, but really, Quinn is slightly terrified by the fact that she still has four days with just Stephanie. She’ll have to see what Lulu is up to. Tear her away from her boyfriend for awhile.

By the time the medical library closes at 10pm, Quinn knows she needs to head back. She’s being irrational. Avoiding Stephanie all day isn’t helpful and probably just makes her seem like she is _freaking_ out. Which she _isn’t_.

She takes a breath when she opens the door to her dorm, and it’s dark. Not surprising, given that Stephanie has been falling asleep early ever since her surgery, and has been sleeping more than usual. Quinn slides in quietly, changes into pajamas for the sake of comfort, and takes her toiletry tote into the bathroom. May as well do as much disrupting of Stephanie’s sleep as she can all at once.

When she comes back from brushing her teeth and washing her face, Stephanie’s desk lamp is on.

Quinn freezes and looks toward her roommate’s bed guiltily. Stephanie watches her, face expressionless. Quinn stows her tote away and says quietly, “Sorry I woke you.”

Stephanie shrugs a little, then whispers, “It’s okay. I was having a nightmare.”

Quinn winces, feeling a rush of guilt for leaving her alone all day. “Oh,” is all she can think of.

Stephanie looks up at her through her lashes, “If it wasn’t too weird last time…I’d like if you could sleep here again. It did really help with the nightmares.”

Quinn’s breathing picks up and the little whisper in her brain asks again _Are you really going to fall for that?_

And she chooses to.

“Okay,” she whispers tentatively. Stephanie scoots back again and Quinn slides under the covers. Stephanie moves closer.

It’s obvious something is different. It’s winter, and Stephanie has been wearing her warm pajamas, but right now she’s in shorts and a tank top. Quinn feels _skin_ where her shirt and shorts don’t quite meet at her lower back as her hand slides around Stephanie’s body with nowhere else to logically go. Soft skin.

“I remember what I said that first night, even though I took painkillers,” Stephanie breathes quietly near Quinn’s neck, “And I don’t regret it. It’s true. And I think you might have a girl crush on me, too.”

Quinn’s throat closes up, and she wants to say no, because she _doesn’t_ , really. Stephanie’s her friend. Her _attractive_ friend, but she doesn’t have romantic feelings for her. “Um,” is all that comes out though.

“It’s okay,” Stephanie murmurs, interrupting, “It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just fun. Two straight girls indulging our silly crushes,” she chuckles softly.

Quinn thinks, _now where have I heard_ that _before?_

And Stephanie’s lips stroke her throat softly.

Half of Quinn shakes in protest, because it’s not right, she doesn’t feel the right way about this girl, but the other half semi-coherently deduces, _She’s offering, no strings attached, and wouldn’t you like to kiss a girl, finally? You don’t even have to come out! Take the opportunity!_

Quinn feels herself trembling, her stomach twisting in anxious excitement, her pulse throbbing in her throat, and anything wrong with that argument is just _gone_ and she takes the opportunity.

She dips her head to catch Stephanie’s lips. Her pulse roars in her ears as she tastes feminine lips (no, wait, _female_ lips, because _Sam’s_ were feminine) for the first time, and a shiver slides down her spine, somehow hot and cold, and she locks the muscles of her arms and legs to keep from shaking.

It’s slow, tentative for a good ten seconds before Quinn has the courage to reach a shaking hand up to slide into the hair at the back of Stephanie’s skull, and _God_ , it’s so thick and soft. Her hand wants to tighten, hard, but she resists the urge and focuses on their mouths, on the warm tongue pressing delicately against her lips. When she opens them and she tastes Stephanie’s tongue for the first time, she expels a huff of air that is entirely a suppressed moan.

And she knows that, not thirty seconds into this kiss, that if she were in high school, she would be insisting they pray right now.

It feels like they kiss for an hour, and Quinn’s not sure her body ever fully relaxes. She keeps it tight to repress the urge to press it fully against Stephanie, because as amazing as this kiss feels, she doesn’t want to it go further. She doesn’t want to out herself by enjoying it _too_ much. So she focuses on their lips and tongues, and keeps their bodies as tame as possible. But _God_ , even this repressed, tightly-wound kiss is liquefying her insides.

When Stephanie pulls back with swollen lips and heavy eyes, she half-moans, “ _God,_ you’re a good kisser,” and nuzzles Quinn’s neck; Quinn allows the tension to break a little by laughing softly. “I just want to keep going, but I’m _so_ exhausted,” Stephanie groans against her neck, and Quinn’s jaw trembles as she tips her head back involuntarily.

“It’s okay,” she croaks out, “You should get some sleep.”

“Mmm,” Stephanie agrees, “Thank you, Quinn.”

“Yeah,” she says quietly, “Night, Stephanie.”

 

_I’m not human at all, I have no heart_

 

Quinn has given in to her base desires.

Not completely. She’s not having _sex_ with Stephanie or anything, because God, her roommate’s straight, and Quinn is trying to appear as such, and as long as they just do what Stephanie is comfortable with, it should be fine. Not to mention, she barely even knows _how_ to have sex, and she’s _so_ not ready for that.

They barely leave the dorm room, even though Stephanie had just been complaining about being cooped up in there while recovering from her surgery (it’s amazing how fast she’s recovered, how hard she can kiss Quinn, how their chins can bump together without producing a hiss of pain). They don’t… _only_ make out, they try to play video games or watch TV, but sooner or later, they’re back on Stephanie’s bed, making out heatedly. And they sleep there. And they wake up there, pressed together almost awkwardly, and would probably start making out first thing if Quinn were not so adamantly opposed to morning breath.

A few thoughts are being continually pushed out of Quinn’s mind.

Steve. Her _friend_. She’s not as close to him as to Stephanie, or even Lulu and Sean. Hell, in some ways she knows _Rob_ better. But every time she remembers that, hey, Stephanie is technically dating Steve, that’s always _somehow, conveniently_ when Stephanie will stroke her tongue languidly down Quinn’s neck, and the thought leaves.

There’s also the thought of, this really, _really_ isn’t what straight girls do. She wasn’t even fooled for long by Brittany and Santana back in high school, and Stephanie’s words about just indulging their girl crushes just _sounds_ like something a deeply closeted Santana Lopez might have said, and she _knows_ that if this is something more to Stephanie, Quinn is in absolutely no shape to help the other girl out of the closet, not when she’s such a wreck herself. She’s only managed to tell _Zizes_. What the hell is that?

So she just decides to take Stephanie’s words at face value. This is just for fun. And _God_ is it ever fun. Stephanie’s kisses never fail to make her feel like she’s going to fall apart, and she doesn’t even return the crush, but it’s amazing, to be kissing a girl. A girl who really, really knows how to kiss back.

And to _touch_. By the third day they’ve been making out, Stephanie breaks the ice and runs her hand lightly over Quinn’s breast, over the shirt.

Quinn isn’t able to suppress her gasp of pleasure, and Stephanie chuckles. “I’ve wanted to know what this would be like,” she murmurs huskily, her palm flexing gently, fingers digging down to try to get a grasp on Quinn’s small breast. She completes the action with a nip at Quinn’s collar, which causes her to sort of simultaneously gasp and moan, a sound that humiliates Quinn a little bit, but Stephanie’s warm hum of approval soothes her somewhat.

Quinn’s hand moves slowly, from where it’s pressing delicately against the soft flesh of Stephanie’s lower back, and trails around to the front of Stephanie’s shirt. She hesitates, fingers trembling, and then cups the breast she’s been trying not to eye for _months_.

It’s bigger than her hand, which is just, just astounding, and Stephanie almost purrs near her ear, clearly enjoying Quinn’s touch. Quinn, for her part, just absolutely loses her ability to stay lying on her side—the only way they’ve made out so far, it seems safer somehow—and tips over onto her back. Almost immediately, the upper half of Stephanie’s body is draped across hers, and they keep kissing, hands between their bodies, kneading soft flesh. She can feel Stephanie’s legs writhing on the bed nearby, feel the brush of Stephanie’s hip against hers as her body moves. Even Quinn can’t resist relaxing her limbs somewhat.

Stephanie stops them several minutes later, flushed and wide-eyed, but grinning smugly. They try to go to sleep not long after, but pressed against her roommate in bed, Quinn’s body hums distractingly, her thighs quiver, and she completely forces herself to ignore the way her panties _stick_ to her. Stephanie, however, falls asleep quickly. So unfair.

Two days later, the day Steve and Sean are set to come back to Yale, everything changes.

Stephanie is on top of her again, but it’s more…entirely on top of her. Quinn notes vaguely that this isn’t something she’s allowed much in her life. She’s always relished the control of a situation, and her boyfriends had always been fairly easy to deal with in that respect.

The previous day and today, things had become much more physical. Quinn finally felt like some of her muscles were starting to unlock, and she touched Stephanie’s breasts with a kind of reverence she’s sure shows too much in her expression. She’d allowed little sounds of pleasure to escape her lips, and Stephanie had groaned with her own pleasure each time. Quinn had found Stephanie’s nipple, after some slow searching; it had taken her an embarrassingly long time, because there were clothes in the way, and she hadn’t wanted to seem _eager_ to find it, had wanted it to seem like she’d found it accidentally, and Stephanie nipping her earlobe is _distracting_.

But Quinn wants to do this, and she rolls the nipple experimentally through the layers of Stephanie’s shirt and bra. Stephanie moans, loudly this time, her hips pressing down insistently against Quinn’s hip; Quinn can feel her soft stomach pressing against her own and she can hardly believe it, but _God_ , the whole act makes her thighs quiver more.

They continue like this for several minutes, with fervent kisses and licks, as Quinn finds the other nipple and begins to pinch at it, too, and Stephanie’s hips jerk more frantically. Quinn is kind of lost in this haze, her focus on the breasts in her hands and the mouth against hers, so when Stephanie groans, “ _God_ ,” and props herself up over Quinn with one hand, murmuring, “okay?” it doesn’t dawn on Quinn right away where the hand disappearing between their hips is going. She merely moans her approval, believing Stephanie is asking her whether or not she is okay. And she doesn’t quite track the hand in her mind until Stephanie is moaning loudly and shuddering, her hips a rhythmic spasm against Quinn’s waist, and Quinn registers the feel of the hand between their bodies, the knuckles against her pelvis.

Stephanie collapses bonelessly on top of her and breathes out, a satisfied sigh, “Holy shit,” she whispers, then sits up a little to smile down at Quinn, who can _feel_ that her face is entirely aflame.

“What…just,” Quinn croaks.

Stephanie just smiles lazily, like this is _normal_ , “You just drove me so crazy,” she whispers, leaning in to kiss Quinn gently. Quinn moves her face away after their lips barely touch, and Stephanie smiles, “You must be so wound up, do you want to finish yourself off, too?”

Quinn feels her stomach jolt and quiver in some horrible combination of anxiety, arousal and repulsion, “I-I’ve never, I don’t…” she hisses.

Stephanie’s head quirks and she eyes Quinn, her flushed face and neck. Her lips part for a moment, before she says, “Oh,” and pulls back away from Quinn a bit, “Oh. I didn’t know you…didn’t…I can’t be that for you, Quinn. I can’t be your first orgasm. That’s something you have to give yourself.”

“What makes you think I want you to be that anyway?” Quinn snaps, and hurt flashes across Stephanie’s face, and she sits up fully, away from Quinn. Quinn scrambles up to move away from her, her chest feeling panicky, and abruptly she remembers that one of the only other times she let someone on top of her was _Puck_ , and if _that_ doesn’t put this situation in crystal clarity. Which then… “Oh my God.” She glares at Stephanie, “What the hell are you going to tell Steve?”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Stephanie asks softly, “It’s okay. I’ve been planning to break up with him since like New Year’s, but he had a family thing, and I haven’t seen him, and I need to do it in person.” She waves a hand, “It’s like I’m not even with him, at this point.” Quinn squeezes her eyes shut, because, no, that’s not what she’s worried about, and she flinches when she feels Stephanie’s hand cover hers, “Look, I like what we do. It’s fun. We don’t have to call it anything, but I’d like to keep doing it. But…you should really consider exploring yourself. I meant it. I can’t do that for you.”

“And I meant it,” Quinn growls, “that I don’t want you to.” She gets off the bed and throw on her coat, “I’m going to the library for awhile,” she grunts.

“Hey,” Stephanie says softly, “I’m sorry if…“

Quinn closes her eyes and exhales. “Don’t be,” she murmurs, “It’s not you.” She hesitates, “I just…need some time.” She leaves without looking back.

 

_Try and hit the spot, get to know it in the dark_

 

True to her word, Stephanie breaks up with Steve that night.

She tells Quinn the next day as they’re getting dressed for class (after sleeping in separate beds, because Quinn had stayed at the library until she was sure Stephanie would be asleep). Stephanie hadn’t seemed to mind this and seemed eager to reassure Quinn the next morning that everything was fine.

Quinn couldn’t really escape her roommate, either, and so listened as Stephanie explained, “He was really pretty okay with it. Said he’d had some doubts about us lately, too, and didn’t think he was what I needed in a partner,” she smiles some, “And he’s not mad at you.”

Quinn whips her head around to stare at Stephanie, “ _What_ did you tell him?”

“It’s okay, it’s not like he’ll tell anyone what we’re doing, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s _really_ not a big deal. This is college, Quinn. But he asked if there was someone else, and I told him, no, not unless he counts my girl crush on you. I told him you and I might make out for fun sometimes, and he basically said he couldn’t blame me there, he’d had half a crush on you, too.”

She inhales hard, then turns away, “Oh, that’s just great. I’m thrilled that we’re part of his spank bank now.”

“It’s really not like that,” Stephanie pouts, “Look, I’m just trying to reassure you. We were enjoying ourselves, what’s wrong with that? We’re both hot, it’s convenient, we don’t have to get bogged down with feelings, and you’re like a better kisser than any of my boyfriends. Steve is fine with it and he’s not going to say anything or perv on us.” She tries to meet Quinn’s eye, “It’s really okay, Quinn.”

A strong part of Quinn wants to believe her, because, obviously, Stephanie had been a better kisser than any of _her_ boyfriends, too, but an equally strong part of her knows she can’t keep doing this. It had felt oddly _safe_ when Stephanie was still with Steve, because there wasn’t supposed to be the potential for things to escalate. But now…well, she’s really starting to doubt that Stephanie _doesn’t_ want more than she can give her.

“It’s really not,” Quinn grates out, “Because I don’t want to do this anymore. What we did was wrong, and unfair to Steve, and _empty_. I can’t.”

As Quinn leaves, she hears Stephanie mutter dejectedly, “You sure could for like the last week.”

Stephanie’s right about something, though. Everybody meets up for dinner that evening—Quinn, Stephanie, Steve, Sean, Lulu and even Rob. Steve and Stephanie casually inform the others that they’re no longer dating, and they’re disturbingly _calm_ and _casual_ around each other in a way that doesn’t even feel forced. Quinn, in disbelief, texts Sean under the table to ask if Steve really is okay, and Sean replies that he seems as unflappable as ever.

Conversation actually flows pretty readily after that announcement, and no one seems to really notice that Quinn won’t look at Stephanie, and won’t talk to her unless Stephanie talks to her first. Quinn hopes it’s because she seems like she’s happy to see the others. At some point, they begin to compare schedules, on the off chance that they have ended up in the same classes; when they’d scheduled last semester, Quinn, at least, hadn’t known anyone but Stephanie well enough to compare class choices. And since she and Lulu had been happy to discover they’re both in the Feminism, Race, Sexuality and Gender freshmen seminar that had met that afternoon, she’s wondering if there are any other surprises in store.

However, before anyone else can really respond to Quinn’s query, Stephanie reacts to the news of Quinn and Lulu’s shared class; she snorts and mutters, “Feminism.”

Quinn faces her for the first time since the meal began and raises an eyebrow, “What?”

Stephanie just shakes her head, and her eyes are hard as they meet Quinn’s. “I just don’t see the point to feminism,” she shrugs, a challenging quirk to her lip, “I mean, I love men, for one thing.” Quinn’s insides twist, hard.

“That’s…really not what it’s about,” Lulu starts tentatively.

Stephanie rolls her eyes, “Oh, sure, I know, it’s about equal pay and equal treatment or whatever. _I_ don’t know. Maybe I’d rather be paid what I’m _actually_ worth rather than what the government thinks I’m worth. I’d rather _earn_ my equal pay. And maybe I’d rather be treated like a woman.”

Quinn isn’t sure whether she’s more shocked by Stephanie’s words or by the fact that she’s speechless. Stephanie doesn’t break eye contact with her, and her steely gaze feels…accusative. Quinn eventually just retorts, “You’re free to have your own opinion,” and looks away. Sean is wearing an expression she’s never seen before—what appears to be concern, directed at her—Rob looks uncomfortable, Steve’s mouth is twisted awkwardly, and Lulu looks incensed, but she hasn’t said anything else. She just stares at her plate, clearly seething.

For her part, Stephanie acts as though she didn’t just slam a sledgehammer of awkwardness down on the table and turns to ask Rob about any new music that they got at the radio station. He picks up the topic gratefully. Quinn avoids Sean’s concerned expression and looks at Lulu, who looks up from her plate to twist her mouth sympathetically at Quinn.

“I’m glad you’ll be in the class with me,” Quinn murmurs.

Lulu gives a tight smile, “Me, too.”

Quinn manages to avoid Stephanie for much of the rest of the week, holing up in the library. When they’re together, all of Stephanie’s affection and hopefulness is gone, and they don’t speak. Quinn tries so hard to blame Stephanie for everything, but she knows she made the choice to do these things with her and that she’s the one that threw everything back in Stephanie’s face. She’s doesn’t blame her for being hurt.

By Wednesday, she calls Rachel in the evening.

“Hello, Quinn!” is the chipper greeting she gets.

“Hey,” she smiles. She hasn’t really even texted her in almost a week, with all the drama going on; their conversation on GChat a few days ago has been about their only contact. “How’s your first week going so far?”

“Oh,” Rachel gushes, “It’s really wonderful so far.” And Quinn listens for several minutes, drinking in the descriptions of Rachel’s classes—dance, and voice, and analysis of tragedies, and musical theory, and script writing. She also listens to news about play rehearsal, since there are only about two weeks left until that play goes on. Quinn’s actually pretty excited to see this show. From what she’s gathered, it’s about a three-semester long project; first, the screenwriting class wrote the scripts, then a class was formed (consisting of many of the same students, but not all) of those who were interested in directing who were meant to cast, set and rehearse the various shows, and then this semester, the same group meets to actually put on each show and then critique, thus serving as a theater criticism class, as well as a directing class.

Until, finally, “How are you?”

Quinn hesitates. She’d called with the intention of asking whether she could visit for the weekend, but now that she’s actually on the phone, it seems crazy. This whole mess isn’t something she’s ready to talk about, she doesn’t think, and coming to New York when she’d just been there less than two weeks ago and when she’d be there the following weekend seems like a bit much. So Quinn just forces a smile into her voice and says, “So far, so good,” and gives Rachel little updates on her classes. She answers questions about the school friends Rachel asks about, faltering only slightly when Stephanie’s name is mentioned.

“Was there a specific reason you called?” Rachel asks tentatively after a few moments of silence.

“No,” Quinn lies, cursing that Rachel guessed such a thing, “I just wanted to hear from you. Next weekend can’t come soon enough.” The last part is no lie, for multiple reasons now.

Rachel giggles quietly, her voice affectionate. “I’m so excited you’ll be coming to see the play. I think you’ll really like it, and I’m on stage more than in the musical! And ooh! Maybe you can help me decide which shows to try out for next?”

Quinn knows Rachel had held off trying out once she’d been cast in two productions (at least at school; she’s shown up for several off-Broadway auditions, but nothing solid has come from that), but she fully intends to perform as much as possible this semester, as well. “I’d be happy to,” Quinn promises, “I’d better let you get to rehearsal.”

“Yeah,” Rachel sighs reluctantly, “Thanks for calling.”

“Sure,” Quinn nods. She hangs up, and it turns into another one of those moments where Quinn is frustrated with their interactions, where she wishes they confided in each other naturally. She’s _still_ upset that she had to find out about Rachel’s feelings on the full end of her relationship with Finn through _Blaine_ , of all people.

Quinn trusts Rachel, as much as she trusts anyone (which, naturally, isn’t all _that_ much), but she can’t let go of her trepidation and fear in order to be the one who confides in Rachel first, who opens back up that particular line of communication.

Even if it means their best friendship falls by the wayside.

So after she hangs up with Rachel, she texts Lulu.

 

**Q: What are you up to this weekend?**

 

 **Lulu: Oh, well, since Steph has been**  
**kinda down since the breakup, I’m taking**  
 **her to my cousin’s in Providence for the**  
 **weekend, hopefully help her get out of her**  
 **funk. I’d invite you, but, you know, she’s**  
 **been snippy with you, too, lately.**

 

 **Q: No, it wouldn’t be a good idea for me**  
**to hang with her right now. It’s a good**  
 **idea to get her out of town. Thanks.**

 

So. At the very least, she has the dorm to herself this weekend.

Maybe she can take the time to make some of Stephanie’s words leave her head. The ones about…self-discovery.

Quinn spends Friday afternoon in the library, tucked away in a study carrel in the corner where she’s pretty sure no one can see her computer screen, waiting for Stephanie to actually leave town. She’s not entirely sure when she and Lulu are leaving, so she gives her dorm room plenty of time to vacate, and looks at…websites.

Not pornographic ones. Just the thought of that turns her stomach and she feels guilty. Like anybody her age with a computer, she’s stumbled across those kinds of websites before, but any flash of excitement in her belly had been instantly replaced by revulsion and shame. Instead, she’s looking at sites aimed at teens, about the female body.

It’s so stupid. It’s not as though she hasn’t _tried_ to masturbate before. There had been a particular period of her pregnancy where she could barely look at a person without feeling the overwhelming urge for them to _touch_ her, to put _something_ inside her. It didn’t even matter who it was at that point. Times like that, she’d probed around, but nothing ever felt particularly amazing, and she’d either get bored or the urge would leave her body for the time being.

There’s a picture open labeling the parts of the female anatomy. Quinn keeps minimizing it, looking over her shoulder to ensure she’s alone, staring at Facebook for a few moments before getting the courage to open it again and look, then minimizing it, and really, it takes her about an hour to finish really examining the damn thing. It’s almost as embarrassing to look at as it is to admit that she _really_ doesn’t know what a…vagina is supposed to look like anyway. It’s about at this moment that it occurs to her that there are probably cameras all over the library and she flushes and immediately packs up her things to head back to her dorm.

Luckily, her dorm is empty when she gets back, and the haphazard way Stephanie’s drawers hang open make it clear that she’s packed up and left for the weekend.

She hates this. She hates feeling so uninformed and so _prudish_. But she’s never been quite able to shake the idea that this is disgusting and wrong. She can’t even remember specifically being told not to touch herself, she just didn’t know for a long time that it is something girls _could_ do, in spite of her completely contradictory thought she always knew it was something she _didn’t_ do.

So she follows all the website’s stupid instructions. She burns with shame as she looks at herself with a compact mirror, trying not to recoil in horror at what she sees, because _God_ , it’s _weird_. She should laugh, because, she keeps it groomed; kind of a leftover habit from her Cheerios days, when waxing was one of the many perks and basically required. She may not wax anymore, but she uses a razor, and somehow, _still_ had no idea what she even _looked_ like until now.

Even knowing that her heart is attuned to wanting women, to loving women, the thought of _touching_ this part of another woman is absolutely petrifying and, thus far, doesn’t rouse any excitement in her. Only horror and anxiety.

When she touches herself—her clit, that mystery part she hadn’t even known _existed_ for almost all her life, that part that the website tells her is so sensitive and pleasurable…she doesn’t feel much. She expects it feel like an electric shock, like a jolt of pleasure to touch herself _there_. She tries to touch and feel it in different ways.

Quinn explores her body for an hour, but, perhaps because it’s so _clinical_ and because it’s a planned exercise, she never gets all that aroused, and she certainly doesn’t orgasm. It takes almost all of her concentration to focus on where and how she touches herself that she doesn’t even consider fantasy. She has to admit, though, that the way she’s touching herself now, feels better than the way she’d tried before, when she ‘d believed that just having anything inside her should make her feel amazing (though, what kind of amazing had never been very clear; it’s embarrassing to admit she didn’t know female orgasms existed until she was 17). She decides to stop and declares the mission a partial success. She’d managed to forget her feelings of guilt about halfway through the endeavor.

By the next day, when she tries again, it’s…a little better. The way she’s touching herself is less focused, more automatic, and she allows her mind to wander a bit. She tries to conjure up a pretty girl that she can imagine kissing, but her mind keeps flashing through girls she knows, and that just feels so _wrong_ that she stops, and tries to just think about the physical reactions of her body. And though she tries for quite awhile, and it gets to the point where her body tenses, her muscles locking…she can’t seem to get beyond that, and eventually just relaxes with a frustrated huff and gives up.

She spends the rest of the day angry with her body’s lack of reaction and wondering if there’s something wrong with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from Father John Misty, “Nancy from Now On,” Sleep Party People, “I’m Not Human At All,” and Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “Zero.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate and closest friend at Yale, she goes back from break early to help take care of her after her wisdom teeth are removed  
> Steve: Stephanie's boyfriend, also a Yale student, Stephanie has been frustrated with him  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, Quinn's friend, they eat lunch together a few times a week  
> Lulu: In Quinn's circle of friends, lives in town, has a needy boyfriend she realizes her friends don't like  
> Rob: In Quinn's circle of friends, Stephanie's advisor at the radio station, friendly and liberal


	26. Your walk, your talk, your dress

_Your walk, your talk, your dress_

 

When Glee ends and the day is over, Blaine smiles sort of automatically and gathers his things.

Even though he feels like he gets along with everybody in the club and has befriended several, he’s still not the guy that has somebody waiting for him once the day is over to walk out to the parking lot together.

He feels sometimes like he was born in the wrong era. He just doesn’t get the appeal of video games—watching his friends play Super Smash Brothers in New York, well, he could admit it was kind of cute, though he was surprised to hear that Kurt plays it with fair frequency. And he likes superhero movies, sure, but it’s more because they tend to have the kind of compelling plots he likes in movies. He doesn’t watch them for the special effects or anything.

He feels old sometimes. And that’s why, perhaps, he’s sometimes so lonely. He thinks Kurt and Rachel probably both feel the same way sometimes, but they’re both so far away right now, and at least they have each other…

It’s also why Karofsky has become a startlingly good friend. In an attempt to have more to talk about, Karofsky had watched some classic movies Blaine had recommended, and, as it turned out, Karofsky is something of a secret romantic, and had loved them. Blaine loves that they can talk about them together. He hadn’t even tried to get Karofsky into the really romantic ones at first; he’d recommended kind of darker ones like _A Streetcar Named Desire_ and _On The Waterfront_ (maybe he just likes Marlon Brando, so sue him) to get him used to a black and white film, but when he’d heard just how much Karofsky ached for poor Blanche DuBois, he’d started recommending epic love stories, which he’d loved.

Sometimes Sam or Artie will end up walking out with him, but today, they’re talking excitedly about Puck and some video game. Brittany and Tina, the two others he feels most comfortable with, are equally engrossed in a discussion about _Black Swan_ as they leave. Blaine feels like his face is a grimace as he hefts his shoulder bag over his head and prepares to leave.

And he notices Wade waiting for him.

“Hey,” Blaine greets, giving her his most winning smile.

“Hi,” Wade says, her light voice not much more than a whisper, “Can I talk to you?”

“Of course,” Blaine smiles, “Here, or…?”

“Here’s fine,” Wade says, her eyes skimming around the room anxiously. She heads to the door that the students exited from and closes it. Blaine sits down curiously on a seat in the first row. Wade sits next to him, adjusting her chair so they’re facing each other a little. Blaine copies her movements and tries to keep his expression open and encouraging.

“I think…” Wade begins, swallows, and her voice comes out with a little more power, “I think I’m ready to become Unique. On a more…daily basis.”

Blaine feels his face light up because, well, Wade wants his _help_ , and he can _do_ that. And also because, well, “Congratulations, Wade,” he gushes, “I’m proud of you. It’s not going to be easy, but I’ll be glad to support you however I can.”

“Thanks,” Wade says quietly, a brief smile appearing, “I’m not sure what to do first. Walking into school one day, that’s terrifying. I guess I…want to try something smaller first.”

Blaine considers, “You could come over to my house for dinner or something, although I understand that’s not much of a step.” He frowns, “That reminds me. Are you safe? At your house, I mean?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Wade nods, “My parents know. My dad…well, he was devastated, and didn’t talk to me for about six months, but my mom eventually talked him through his feelings.” She eyes Blaine a moment, “I’m lucky, you know. Because my extended family? None of them could really accept it. My…cousin is Azimio Adams. He graduated last year. He’s the reason I didn’t go to McKinley, even though it was the closer school. His family refuses to talk to me.”

“That’s terrible,” Blaine responds sympathetically, touching Wade lightly on her arm.

Wade squirms, slightly uncomfortably, “I would like to come to dinner, but…I need something more. I don’t feel like I can just go out to the Lima Bean or anything yet. That’s too much…daylight. Too much of a chance of being recognized before I’m ready.”

The idea hits him and he barely restraints himself from applauding the way Kurt does when he’s struck with inspiration. He drops his voice, “I’m going to the gay bar with some friends in a few weeks. I’m _sure_ we could get an ID for you, and it would probably be the most welcoming place you could go to in Lima.”

Wade’s eyebrows knit together and she says gently, “You know I’m not gay, right? I’m a straight woman.”

Blaine smiles, “It doesn’t matter. Brittany’s going, and she’s bi, and I think Tina asked to come, too, and she’s straight. She says dancing with gay men is great because they aren’t crude. So you’ll be safe. We just won’t go on drag queen night,” he finishes absently, thinking of how flamboyant Unique tends to be and not quite realizing what he’s said.

Her eyes are hard as she says, “I am not a drag queen.”

“I know!” he says quickly, “I’m sorry. I just…Unique’s style…I don’t want people to assume.”

She doesn’t seem to hear his excuse and continues, “I’m not a gay man with a feminine persona. I’m not a man who prefers to present as a woman. I’m a woman, Blaine. I am Unique, inside. It’s just an insult to me to use my real name when I look like _this_ ,” she gestures dismissively toward her body, in her men’s jeans and polo shirt.

“I understand,” Blaine murmurs, “I’m so sorry. It was a very poor choice of words. I don’t doubt your gender identity in the slightest. But I still think, if you’re up for it, it would be a good place for you to get your feet wet. And I’ve been there before. They don’t tend to care much about whether or not you’re underage. I think they know there’s nowhere else really safe for young queer kids to go.”

Her eyes have softened, but she’s still regarding Blaine uncertainly, until she finally breathes, “Okay. I’ll give it a try.”

“Wonderful,” Blaine breathes, “I’m happy for you. Unique—you—are gorgeous.”

She dips her eyes bashfully, “I know,” she whispers lightly, “Thanks for, you know. Being willing to help me out.”

“Any time,” Blaine promises.

 

_My heart needs a love dance_

 

Their first performance is tomorrow, on Thursday night, and she’s really excited. Working with the cast of this play has been incredibly fun, and she’s gotten to know them better than the _South Pacific_ cast. It’s with excitement and a delicious sort of adrenaline-filled apprehension that she strides into the dressing room to prepare for their final dress rehearsal.

She’s a little early, and as she enters, she sees the only other girl there is Gretchen, who sits on a folding chair with her legs tucked beneath her, reading. She’s already in her costume for her first scene, and an array of makeup is spread in front of her, but she doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to apply it.

“Hello, Gretchen,” Rachel greets, her tone faux-friendly.

Gretchen’s eyes lift barely from the book, “Rachel,” she returns expressionlessly before returning to her reading. Rachel seethes silently as she unpacks her collection of stage makeup from her messenger bag. There’s something about Gretchen that has rubbed her the wrong way since they met. Something about how laconic and cold she is, that she seems like she doesn’t give a _damn_ about anything. When she gets onstage, she’s suddenly able to convey _anything_ , which just infuriates Rachel further. Where is this girl’s passion? Rachel firmly believes in drawing inspiration from life, and if Gretchen is _that_ stoic…Rachel can’t fathom how she acts. It must be empty.

They don’t speak otherwise until more girls start arriving. Rachel greets all of them happily, Gretchen nods to each one that enters, though she speaks if spoken to, and mostly pays attention to either her book or her makeup. The other girls are okay; not really people Rachel wants to get to know better, not like the guys, but she keeps a good rapport going. It’s important to be easy to work with in this business, at least at this juncture. It’s a change from high school, to be sure, but not being the most talented person in a fifty mile radius had quite a sobering effect on her.

She looks forward to the day when she can be a diva again.

And their dress rehearsal is actually quite marvelous. Rachel’s arguments onstage with Gretchen are fiery, her entreaties to Jeremy’s Theo/Theseus are heartrending and his matching painful uncertainty is palpable. After curtain call, Jeremy laughs and hugs Gretchen, then turns to literally lift Rachel into the air and twirl her. She shrieks, her stomach jolting slightly at the feel of being _lifted_ by someone again, and he plants a kiss on her cheek as they spin.

“You’re coming tomorrow, right?” Jeremy asks her after he sets her down.

“Jeremy!” she replies, scandalized, “I wouldn’t miss the opening show, are you insane?”

He laughs heartily, “Oh, believe me, I don’t doubt that, but I meant to the cast party!”

Rachel’s smile falters, “Oh, I um. I didn’t know there was one.”

Jeremy blinks in surprise and runs a hand through his floppy dark hair. “Wait, really?” He turns with a frown, hollering, “Gretch!”

She turns, her blank face regarding Jeremy, “Yes?” she asks, the barest uptick of her eyebrows communicating…impatience?

“You forgot to invite Rachel to the cast party?” he pouts.

Gretchen turns her cool blue eyes onto Rachel, and her head tilts to the side, “So I did,” she admits without a trace of shame or apology, “My mistake. Rachel, I do hope you can make it to the cast party. You’ll fill her in, Jeremy?” With that, she turns and walks away.

Jeremy watches her go, shaking his head with a little smile, “Her head’s always in the clouds,” he explains to Rachel, who fights to keep her expression sympathetic to his words, because _seriously_? Did he not just see how she tried to _snub_ Rachel? “But in all seriousness,” Jeremy says, facing her again, “You’re coming, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rachel smiles at him, a little forced.

He expels a dramatic puff of air, “Good!” he grins, “I was so hoping I’d see you there. Can I…take you to the party?” he asks, abruptly uncertain.

“Please,” Rachel nods, “I love for you to accompany me.” She’s thinking primarily of the fact that she doesn’t know where Gretchen lives, or even precisely when the party is, but after a few moments, the implications of his query hit her and her eyes get wide.

He’s smiling, relieved. “Great. We’ll go together tomorrow, it’s gonna be right after the show. See you for the first show, short stop!” He hurries away, grinning bashfully at nothing.

She leaves the building a bit unsteadily, wrestling with whether or not she believes what has just occurred. Kurt meets her at the adjacent library; he hasn’t met her in the theater yet because he hasn’t wanted any show spoilers. On their way home, he tiredly rests his head against her shoulder—no doubt exhausted from working for the past nine days—and Rachel gnaws her lip. She knows that, if Jeremy hadn’t been the one to ask her, she wouldn’t be going to this. She’s really only going because the idea seemed to make Jeremy so happy, and she likes him. He’s talented, sweet, a little goofy. Strong. Cute.

It’s when she’s crawling into bed that night that she thinks of it. Blaine, smiling at her uncertainly, telling her the best way to get over her ex is to get under the next.

And while…yeah, she’s pretty sure she’s _over_ Finn, well…it can’t hurt to put some _real_ distance between them, can it?

She thinks back to her last interaction with Jeremy, to the way he always seems to pay her special attention, despite his bond with Gretchen (who gazes at him with what Rachel is sure is real longing when they’re onstage together), and she smiles wickedly as she burrows her head down further into her pillow.

 

_Cleansing everything to forget your love_

 

Their first performance is very, very strong.

It isn’t perfect, of course. There’s always something to improve. Neal falters over one of his words, but recovers well. Rachel is disappointed with the word she chose to emphasize in one of her lines as she was saying it, and Jeremy cracks a brief smile at the wrong moment during an intense scene with her. She also thinks she got the timing wrong on a line in which she interrupts Gretchen, and Jeremy’s encounter with their Minotaur comes close to knocking over some important scenery.

Gretchen’s performance, though, is infuriatingly flawless. She portrays Ari/Ariadne’s adoration and worry for Theo in such a sympathetic way that Rachel can _feel_ the audience holding their breath.

After curtain call, the cast is laughing and hugging joyfully, elated from their successful performance. Rachel hurries off into the dressing room to get ready for the cast party.

The Little Black Dress makes a reappearance in her life.

Her hair is meant to be curly for this role, which is always a hassle. It never quite curls right when she leaves it to its own devices, which requires her to use curlers overnight or a curling iron, and though her hair has gone a little limp from the sweat of adrenaline and stage lights, it will have to do. Likewise, it’s not worth trying to touch up the stage makeup caking her face. She can’t make it subtle, and she doesn’t want to keep Jeremy waiting by starting her makeup all over again.

She hopes her outfit will do her justice where the rest of her appearance fails.

She knows the dress is sexy. When she wore it to Puck’s party over the summer, it was the first thing anyone commented on when they greeted her, which had felt _good_.

She follows a few other girls out of the dressing room, her messenger bag and coat over her shoulder, her heels clacking loudly in the hallway. She meets Jeremy in the lobby of the theater and smiles, feeling only slightly silly for her rumpled hair and messenger bag instead of a demure purse. But Jeremy’s eyes widen slightly as he takes in her outfit, though he wipes his expression clean quickly. He chuckles a little, “You look great, short stop. You ready for the party?”

“Lead the way, good sir!” she responds pompously, and he laughs, helping her on with her coat before offering his arm. Gretchen seems to be rallying the rest of the cast and crew, reminding everyone where her apartment is and offering her phone number in case anybody gets separated from the group or anybody wants to head home before going to the party. About half of those involved are heading straight for her apartment, so she leads the group out of the theater toward the subway.

Rachel momentarily regrets wearing her heels as they walk to the subway station—which really isn’t that far, but seems much further in the two-inch heels. Jeremy holds her arm, though, smiling at her. Gretchen glances behind her several times, her eyes flicking over Jeremy and Rachel together, and sometimes dipping down to look at Rachel’s shoes with a little scowl.

Gretchen’s stop is only a few down from the school, and her apartment is very close to the stop. It’s also clearly in a much nicer neighborhood than Rachel’s—it’s better lit somehow, with less trash on the street. Her apartment is also kinda _nice_. It’s a three bedroom, though Gretchen off-handedly remarks that both of her roommates are out of town for the weekend, and the living room feels like it’s twice as big as Rachel’s, which is impressive, because her apartment’s living room is _already_ pretty big. And she has a little alcove off her kitchen that’s like a mini _dining room_ , and Rachel is baffled at how she can afford it all.

Gretchen starts setting up food and drinks—extracting prepared plates of hors d’oeuvres from her refrigerator, lining up juice and alcohol on her counter. She announces that she won’t deny anyone a drink as long as they don’t manage to get her a noise complaint. Jeremy, who appears to know his way around the apartment, turns on some music, which makes Gretchen give him a little smile.

“You want a drink?” Jeremy asks Rachel.

“Please,” she responds, swallowing down her nerves. She won’t have much. She’s starting to get an idea of her limits, and she watches him prepare a vodka cranberry for her.

He hands it to her with a little smile, “I went a bit light on the vodka, ‘cause you’re petite, but, you know, sip it?”

“I know,” she nods, grateful for his concern and not wanting to give the impression that she’s a lush.

They mingle for awhile, but soon, Rachel ends up in the dining alcove, watching Jeremy participate in a drinking game involving a deck of cards. She giggles as he’s forced to take a drink every time he speaks, as a rule change forces everyone else to refer to him as “Tiger,” as he loses a round of “never have I ever,” by admitting he’s worn women’s underwear and has to drink.

The game breaks up soon after that as Jeremy announces he’s going to need to switch to water for awhile, and those in the alcove start to meander into Gretchen’s living room. Rachel moves to follow Jeremy, but as she stands from the windowsill she’s been leaning against, she wobbles a bit in her shoes and takes a seat, hoping it looks graceful. The only person left at the table is Gretchen, who sips red wine and had done astonishingly well in the drinking game—meaning she seems little more than tipsy at the moment.

Rachel offers a faux-smile, and receives one in return. “Are you having a good time?” Gretchen asks politely.

“Oh, yes,” Rachel offers, following the same hospitality code, “Thank you for inviting me.”

“No problem,” Gretchen shrugs, “You need another drink?”

“No, thank you.”

They’re silent for another few moments before Jeremy pops his head back in to grin at them, “Hey, Gretch, Rachel, I’m gonna head down to the convenience store with Neal. He’s got a hankering for Gatorade.”

Gretchen’s eyebrows lift, “Well, that’s one refreshment I didn’t foresee the need to buy. You can find the store alright, yeah?”

“Of course,” Jeremy grins. He turns to Rachel, “You gonna be alright for awhile?”

“Sure thing,” Rachel smiles, “Have a nice walk.”

“Good. You text me if you need anything. Just hang here with Gretchen.” He bends over a little to clumsily to kiss her forehead.

Rachel nods and forces a smile and, despite her discomfort, finds herself compelled to stay in the alcove with Gretchen when she _wants_ to maybe go into the living room and hang out with everybody else.

She watches as Gretchen’s eyes follow Jeremy until he’s out of sight, before turning back to her. Gretchen sips her wine before saying carefully, “He’s a good guy.”

Rachel smiles, genuinely now. “Yes. He really is.” And then, feeling sly and victorious, she thinks, time to bring it home, “I hope it’s okay with you that we like each other. You two have undeniable chemistry, but I’d like to explore what he and I have.”

Gretchen chuckles wryly, “Chemistry? Sure, onstage, but that’s all showmance. In reality, he’s like a brother to me. Trust me, you’re not stepping on my toes. I’m very…picky when it comes to romance.”

“So am I,” Rachel agrees with a nod, because, hasn’t she always wanted the best? The quarterback, the show choir star—two of them, if you counted her brief fling with Blaine. Even Puck had been high-status in his own subversive way.

But the way Gretchen’s eyes linger on her, and her eyebrow upticks before she says, “Sure,” agreeably abruptly has Rachel second-guessing.

She _is_ picky. She’s always pursued the best. Or has she? It’s hard to remember how things with Finn started at this point, but she seems to think she had pursued him rather viciously—at the expense of poor Quinn. But would she have continued her pursuit after he rejected her during their picnic if _he_ hadn’t reciprocated himself? Would she have dated Puck if he hadn’t approached her and called her a hot Jew? Would she have dated Jesse if he hadn’t arranged for their serendipitous meeting at the music store? And Finn…she had pursued him after their second breakup almost obsessively, but would she have perhaps chosen Jesse had Finn not pursued her so strongly at Nationals? But if she had chosen Jesse, would that have been any better, when he’d come back to Lima just to pursue her?

In short, had she ever really pursued a boy because she wanted him, or were her romantic interests more a case of eager reciprocity? Did she chase guys because she _chose_ them, or because _they_ paid attention to her?

Finn is the example she tries to cling to. She put so much of herself out there in her pursuit of him. _She_ chose _him_! She saw his leading man potential and decided she wanted that for herself!

But then, why did she keep going back to him?

Because he pursued her?

Every time she’s tried to move on from him after a breakup (and she’s made something of an effort each time, granted that some attempts were more successful than others), he’s come back strong and brought her back to his side. That’s…that’s not picky.

That’s settling.

She swallows hard as this realization hits her, and she tells herself firmly that _this_ is what she’s doing _now_. She’s choosing Jeremy, as the next person she wants to _be_ with so she can move on from Finn. She’s choosing him, and it has _nothing_ to do with the fact that he kissed her cheek and offered to escort her to the party yesterday. She chose him independently.

Gretchen tilts her head to the side, “For such a talented actress, you sure don’t hide your emotions very well.”

Rachel meets her eyes, a little stung but mostly flattered, “You…think I’m talented?”

“Of course,” Gretchen answers easily, her cool eyes, half-lidded in calm, looking back just as honestly. She seems to accept that Rachel doesn’t want to talk about what’s on her mind and just tells her, “You’re a natural onstage.”

“Then…then, why is it you don’t like me?” Rachel asks bluntly. “I figured it was because of Jeremy, but if you’re being honest that you’re not into him…”

Gretchen’s mouth twists a little and she says bluntly, “Well, you have a bit of an attitude, and, I don’t know, you strike me as the flighty type this program is so full of. It irks me when some freshman marches in here expecting to be the next big shot.” She gives a laconic little smile, “I do _not_ like to get wrapped up in that kind of drama. I’m here to learn how to _work_.”

Rachel scowls a little, “But I’m _not_! Like that, I mean,” she retorts firmly, “It took me _so long_ to work up the nerve to try out here, because there _is_ so much talent!”

“Yeah, and you’re toward the top of the heap. How do you think you got the role you did when you look nothing like me? Directors don’t normally like to stretch the audience’s belief that far,” Gretchen informs her. And it’s true. Gretchen is tall, strawberry blonde and blue-eyed, lean, but not petite—built more like a volleyball player than a dancer. Rachel couldn’t be her sister in any universe. Continuing, Gretchen fixes Rachel with a stare, “I’m confident in my own talents. I’m not _jealous_ of your talent or anything like that. But maybe I got the wrong read on you. Though, it does feel like, every time we interact, you’re fake with me. I don’t do that shit.”

Rachel flushes with embarrassment. Gretchen is far too good at reading her. And she really wasn’t trying to hide her faux-pleasantries with the girl, but now she feels _childish_ , because, is the reason she’s been cold toward Gretchen because she’s jealous of _her_ talent?

She drops her eyes, and Gretchen merely nods, reading her embarrassment and remorse clearly on her face. “It’s alright,” she shrugs, “This is a tough business. It’s not easy when every friend can be a competitor.” She gets up, “Look, what you do with Jeremy is your business. Just be good to him. He’s fond of you.” She walks out, to the living room, and leaves Rachel sitting there.

And she can’t help thinking, _green light_. Jeremy is _fond_ of her, and so she can _choose_ him. She doesn’t let the doubts about why she’s pursuing him in.

Before too long, he’s back, and he comes into the alcove to find her, grinning, “Hey, you doing okay?”

“Mmhmm,” she hums at him, then stands to get next to him, putting her lips near his ear, “Want to go somewhere a little more private?”

He looks at her, blinking a few times and smiling a little, “Do you mean…I mean, sure!”

As they disappear into one of Gretchen’s roommate’s rooms (an arrangement that feels perfectly natural at the time), Rachel inhales deeply to steel her nerves. She’s going to _choose_ this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Michael Jackson, “The Way You Make Me Feel,” You Say Party! We Say Die!, “Laura Palmer’s Prom,” and Muse, “Plug-In Baby.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Jeremy: Male lead in the original play Rachel has a secondary role in, they work well together, friendly  
> Gretchen: Female lead in the original play Rachel has a secondary role in, Rachel doesn't like her  
> Neal: Gay actor in the original play Rachel has a secondary role in


	27. Now painting rainbows on my ugly face

_Now painting rainbows on my ugly face_

 

She gets back from work Friday morning and tries to remind herself that she just has one more day of work until she gets to enjoy a day off.

And it should be a good one. Quinn should be arriving in town this afternoon, and on Saturday night, they’re all going to go see Rachel’s show; she and Kurt had arranged to both be off that evening.

After tiredly washing her face and brushing her teeth, Santana steps cautiously into the bedroom. She and Rachel may not wake each other up often, but that doesn’t mean Santana doesn’t do her best to be quiet.

But when she glances over toward Rachel’s bed, she realizes…it’s empty.

This is weird. This doesn’t happen. She glances around. No shoulder bag. She goes back out to the living room. Rachel’s coat is gone. But there’s _no way_ Rachel will have left the house already. She may be an early riser, but not _this_ early much anymore. It’s not even seven. Even if she did wake up at six, she’d still be at the apartment, in the shower or something.

Something just _feels_ wrong about this, and Santana sends a text.

 

**Tana: Where r u? Did u leave the apt  
already today? Let me know.**

 

She stands in the living room staring at her phone for several minutes, and when a response isn’t forthcoming, irrational worry propels her over to Kurt’s door, where she knocks firmly several times.

She hears a little groan, and a “what?” before long moments of shuffling finally bring Kurt over to his door. He cracks it open, blinking at her in tight boxer-briefs and an undershirt, “What?” he growls again.

“Where’s Rachel?” she asks.

He blinks slowly a few more times and unconsciously tries to smooth his hair. “She’s…not here?”

“No…” Santana says slowly, “She had her show last night and I left for work before she would have headed home. You were supposed to meet her, remember?”

“Oh. Right,” Kurt shakes his head a little, “She went to the cast party after her show. I told her to call and wake me when she was on her way home.” He frowns and turns back into his room to pick up his phone. Shaking his head, he reports, “She didn’t call.”

Santana gnaws her lip, “Ugh, you told her to wake you up? You know she wouldn’t do that.” She unlocks her own phone and calls Rachel. It goes straight to voicemail. She shuts her eyes anxiously, “No answer. Straight to voicemail.”

They stare at each other a moment and Kurt’s exhausted eyes slowly become as panicked as Santana’s.

“Um. Okay,” he says, “We should see if we can contact any of her castmates. Maybe through Facebook?”

“Good idea,” Santana agrees, but as Kurt starts to leave his room, she rolls her eyes, “But cover up, Jesus, Kurt, I don’t need to see the outline of your junk in those boy panties.”

Kurt rolls his eyes and gets his pajama pants, but Santana’s crudeness seems to have lessened their panic somewhat. They sit together on the couch, both clutching their phones, and are just starting to sort through Rachel’s Facebook friends on Santana’s computer when Santana’s phone buzzes.

 

 **Berry: I’m almost home. I stayed the**  
**night at the cast party. Sorry if you were**  
 **worried!**

 

Santana slumps back against the couch. “She stayed the night there. She’s on her way home now.”

Releasing a sigh, Kurt slumps back beside her, “Oh thank god we were worrying for nothing. We really should have known she would do that.”

“I suppose,” Santana shrugs.

“Well, I’m way too awake to sleep now…” Kurt trails off.

“Me too. I’m gonna wait up for her now. Besides, maybe she got some,” Santana wiggles her eyebrows and Kurt releases a sharp laugh.

They don’t have the energy to do much more than stare at the blank TV screen until Rachel gets there, which takes about ten minutes; she must have texted after getting out from underground. When they hear the key in the door, they both perk up like a pair of bored puppies and they watch as Rachel comes into the apartment.

They falter for a moment at that point, and Kurt utters, “Oh my god, I’m having flashbacks to that makeover I gave her sophomore year…”

“Not helping,” Santana snaps, elbowing him, but whatever he did to her back then, she supposes he’s right. Rachel looks…bad. Her hair is a mess of tangles and limp curls, her face is covered in blotchy, smeared heavy makeup. When she takes off her winter coat, they see she’s wearing her little black dress, which is rumpled and hangs awkwardly off her. She doesn’t even seem to react to Kurt’s comment about her appearance, just kind of focuses on the task of hanging up her coat with exhaustion evident on her face.

“Hey,” Santana greets awkwardly, sitting forward on the couch. “Are you alright?”

Rachel flashes a very strained smile and for a moment it looks like she’s going to attempt to gloss over her appearance and obvious mood, but then her face twists and crumples slightly and she speaks quietly, “I…don’t know.”

Santana’s heart starts hammering with anxiety all over again, because, well, she knows what a walk of shame looks like, but it’s _not this_. She’s about to stand up, but Kurt beats her to it, approaching Rachel cautiously and hooking his arm with hers to guide her to the couch. Rachel blinks and gives him a watery smile before settling on the couch between him and Santana.

“What happened, sweetie?” Kurt asks softly, his eyes, much clearer than they were moments before, tracing over her face. Santana reaches for the blanket they keep draped over the back of the couch to drape over Rachel awkwardly. Since the landlord pays for the heat, it’s never _that_ warm in the apartment, generally just comfortable, but Rachel looks cold in that little black dress, which, seriously, is really only appropriate for summer…

“I went to the cast party,” Rachel begins hesitantly, “It was being thrown by Gretchen, you know, that girl I don’t really like? Well, I can’t say that anymore, I don’t think, I think we may have reached an understanding, but regardless…” Kurt nods encouragingly as Rachel collects herself, while Santana masks her impatience. “I…Jeremy accompanied me. In a context that felt…date-like, I suppose. Though we never made that quite clear, and…Kurt, Blaine said something to me recently, about how the best way to get over your ex is to get under the next, so that was on my mind.”

Kurt sucks on his teeth briefly and shakes his head, “That does sound like Blaine. So, you and Jeremy?”

Rachel nods, barely. “Yes. I wanted to take Blaine’s advice, because it sounded good, and Jeremy is the type of guy I should really click with, you know? He’s sweet, and handsome, and talented…”

“But?” Santana prompts.

Shoulders slumping, Rachel appears to shrink in on herself as she answers, “It just…when we attempted to be physical, it didn’t go well. It just…nothing felt good, nothing felt _right_. Like I was going through the motions.”

Santana meets Kurt’s eye, and he looks concerned and bewildered, but she can’t help but take what Rachel’s saying a different direction. Maybe it’s Brittany’s assumption that _something_ could happen between her and Rachel, but Santana kind of blithely states, “Well, don’t take this as an accusation, Rachel, but that sounds an awful lot like the sex I used to have with Puck.” Both sets of eyes snap to her at this, Rachel’s looking kind of scared, Kurt’s looking like _are you serious_? So Santana rolls her eyes a little and says, “Come on, Kurt. You have to know what I mean. I mean, compare when you were fooling around with Britts to the first time you and Captain Eyebrows got down and dirty. Big fucking difference, right?’

“I am _not_ discussing my sex life with you,” Kurt huffs. Rachel is frowning thoughtfully, and looks like she’s about to say something before Kurt turns to her, “Sweetie, look, it’s okay. You and I have both had sex for questionable reasons before, and that’s all this is.”

“We didn’t have sex,” Rachel mumbles, “Just…hands. I thought I wanted to have intercourse, but…no…and when he touched me…” she shakes her head, “It felt wrong.”

“What do you mean about having sex for questionable reason?” Santana directs at Kurt.

He exchanges a look with Rachel, who winces slightly. “Fine,” he huffs, “for the sake of context. Rachel and I both lost our virginities under…not the best of circumstances, retrospectively.”

“Well, yeah,” Santana grumbles, “Rachel _did_ lose hers to Finn fucking Hudson _right_ after we all told her _not_ to.”

Rachel looks a little hurt, “You don’t sound surprised. That that’s when I chose to give myself to him, I mean.”

“Uh, no. You think he could keep his mouth shut after getting horizontal with you? Everybody knew.”

If possible, Rachel looks even more hurt, but she takes a breath. “It’s not just that it was Finn. I was in love with him, Santana. It didn’t matter to me how good…or not…he was. It’s just…” she shakes her head, “It took me awhile to realize this, but I don’t think I made the decision for the right reasons. It was all about…doing better in _West Side Story_ , and making _him_ feel good about himself. I didn’t choose to do it as an expression of the love we shared.”

Kurt nods, “Yes, it was much the same for Blaine and myself. And…he and I were not ready.” Kurt looks away, his cheeks tinged pink, “If I may be a little crude, we attempted…penetrative sex our first time. I was the bottom because, _obviously_ , that’s what everyone expects of me, right?” He gestures to himself, rolling his eyes. “It was…well, we were not cautious, and it was painful for me, and frustrating for him. We didn’t entirely know what we were doing and…we kind of tried to force it.” He winces at the memory. “Blaine did manage to finish, but I was nowhere near aroused at that point. I just wanted to whole encounter over with. He felt awful that it hadn’t been good for me.”

“You didn’t tell me it had been that bad,” Rachel breathes at him.

Kurt blinks a few times and shrugs helplessly, and both girls let him continue, because he seems to need to. “Afterwards, Blaine felt so terrible that it hadn’t gone well for me that he starting researching. You know how he likes to think he’s knowledgeable about gay issues. He started reading a lot of Dan Savage. You guys know him?”

Santana shakes her head, while Rachel murmurs, “Sounds kind of familiar.”

“He did the ‘It Gets Better’ project. I really admired him for that, and when I discovered the project, and it really helped me to think positive, I looked into his other stuff, but his sex advice just…I didn’t like it. It was too crude and disturbing for me. Blaine loved it, however, and told me _so_ much more than I ever wanted to know about other people’s sexual practices. But he did learn things that helped us. Such as, apparently it’s not all that unusual for a gay man to not be particularly into,” he fumbles with his words before rapidly uttering, “anal sex. So we learned to explore other things, that we realized were just as much sex and were loving expressions that fit us better.” Kurt smiles, faintly, “so yes. Our first time was not what it should be, but we learned.”

Rachel grimaces a little and says, “I wish I could say the same for Finn and myself. The sex was…it was…well, if I didn’t love him I would probably have been bored to tears. But it didn’t change. And…I hate to say it, but as time went on, sexual experiences with him began to resemble something like a chore. Something else I needed to do to keep my life ordered.”

“Ringing Puckerman bells,” Santana mutters. Kurt glares at her a little again, and she rolls her eyes, “Look, okay, I’m gay. I’m a lesbian who has had a ton of sex with a ton of guys. I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t getting _something_ out of it. There were aspects I enjoyed, okay, even if it was just that it fucking _felt good_ and was more fun than just using my hand, right? I fooled myself for a long time and with so many guys. Someone once told me it’s about who you love rather than who you’re attracted to, so Rachel, I’m not saying you’re gay. I’m just saying that if the men feel wrong, maybe _something about them_ is wrong. And there’s a slim chance it could be because they’re men.”

“And _I’m_ saying that accusing Rachel of being a closet case is impolite and completely delusional,” Kurt sniffs.

“It’s okay,” Rachel says quietly, then pauses for a long moment, licking her lips and softly informing them, “Santana is not entirely off-base.”

Santana’s eyebrows shoot up, intrigued, while Kurt stares openmouthed. “In what possible way?” he asks sharply.

Rachel looks away from him, obviously hearing the distrust in his voice. She focuses her gaze on her hands, curled together in a painful-looking knot in her lap. “What I mean is that…I am attracted to men, very much so, and very much emotionally and romantically. But I am also attracted to women, and…recently have begun to wonder if I’m not…more attracted to them physically and sexually.”

Santana blows out a breath and leans back on the couch hard. Really, nothing could have prepared her for…for _that_. That admission and that _mess_. What the hell does that even mean?

“You’re bisexual?” Kurt squeaks in shock, staring at her like…like she’s a Rachel-bot, like on _Buffy_.

“I don’t know,” Rachel answers honestly, “Because Santana’s right, it’s really about who you love, and I’m fairly certain I’m incapable of falling in love with a woman. I just…don’t think that kind of romantic attraction is possible for me.”

“You’re bisexual,” Kurt negates, his nostrils flaring, “For the love of god, Rachel, why didn’t you tell me?”

Rachel turns hot eyes to him, “Maybe because of how you’re reacting now? Kurt, you don’t even believe bisexuality _exists_!”

Kurt glares for a brief moment, his jaw tight, before looking away. “I doubt the existence of bisexual _men_. If I ever meet one that convinces me and that I don’t think is just a horny teenage boy who is happy to get a blowjob from _any_ mouth, then I might change my mind. I’ve never doubted bisexual women exist.”

Rachel and Santana exchange a bewildered glance at Kurt’s strangely specific description, but then Rachel is gazing at him with hurt on her face and she speaks softly, “Okay, fine, but I’ve never heard you say it. But I also didn’t tell you or _anyone_ because…I had to come to terms with it myself, okay? This has been a part of me for a long time, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with. In fact…there was this time when I was eleven…” she stops, chews her lip for a moment, and while Kurt still sits beside her, struggling to mask his obvious discomfort, Santana lays a hand on her arm.

“What happened when you were eleven?” she asks.

Rachel smiles at her, exceedingly brief, and murmurs, “I chose men.” Santana feels her face harden in some irrational mixture of horror and anger, but Rachel isn’t looking at her or Kurt anymore, she’s back to staring at her lap, and she continues, “It didn’t feel like it at the time, but retrospectively…that’s what happened. My fathers, they…they always told me to be myself, and they would love me regardless. And I always knew that, I always believed that, but somehow, it wasn’t enough. And I got the mail when I came home from school one day, and there was a pamphlet inside, from a church. I don’t even remember which one, just a church in Lima, and the pamphlet was made by their pastor.”

Santana winces sympathetically, already sensing what kind of pamphlet this is, and steals a glance at Kurt, whose sour expression is finally softening sympathetically. They share a guilty glance as Rachel continues.

“And being naturally curious, I read it. It contained probably what you’re expecting—all kind of socio-political rhetorical propaganda about how gay couples are incapable of properly raising children. But there was a section in which the pastor implored my fathers _personally_ to change the way they were raising me, and the pastor said, basically, that they were dooming me to a life of abnormal sexuality because of the lack of a female parent in my life. That I was going to grow up emotionally and sexually stunted because I didn’t have a mother.”

Kurt shudders, and Santana breathes out a seething breath through her nose, and both have ready retorts at the tips of their tongues, but rein it in. They know Rachel knows how crazy this pamphlet was.

“The problem is, at the time…it rang very true to me. I was beginning puberty—behind all my peers, because, as you know, I am a bit younger, and so I _already_ felt stunted physically. And I wasn’t good at making friends, I really, really wished I had a mother at that age, because everything was so hard and confusing and my fathers were having a lot of trouble relating to my teenage girl concerns. And worse…I had begun to notice that I felt…funny around girls sometimes. At that age, bourgeoning sexuality is embarrassing enough that I didn’t want anyone to know anyway, but _this_ …” She shakes her head with a little laugh, “There was one part in the pamphlet, talking about how because I was unable to bond with my mother, that I would seek connections with other women instead, connections that would become muddled by puberty to become sexual. And I thought, oh my God, this is _happening_ to me, because I had _never_ fantasized about girls whatsoever throughout my childhood. All my romantic fantasies were about boys. Still are.”

“…you really believed that?” Santana asks, surprised to find her voice shaky.

“It was very persuasive to a young, motherless girl, who was already lonely and whose sexual feelings were not developing the way she’d expected.”

“So you…chose.”

Rachel sighs, “Yes. So I suppose you could say I chose men. I was interested in them—I had such a huge crush on Matt Rutherford at that age. Did you know he was in my ballet class back then? Before his father pulled him out of ballet, I think. He was one of the first ‘leading men’ in my life, you could say. He was much the same as we know him—strong, silent type—but he was talented and dancing with him felt _good_. But, I suspected he was gay, which kind of ruined the fantasy for me—my fathers had always taught me to be aware of the fact that so many leading men in my Broadway career would be gay. Regardless, that was why I told myself was why I was noticing the good female dancers in my class.”

“You know, I always wondered that about him,” Kurt muses, “He tripped my gaydar, too.”

Santana snorts, “Seriously? He’s straight,” she states decisively.

“How do you know?” Kurt counters. Santana just gives him a long look until he turns pink and murmurs, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Santana smirks, “Been there, done that.”

Kurt shakes his head and turns back to look at Rachel, “So your choice was…?”

Rachel shrugs a little, “It was more of a subconscious choice to ignore the part of me that was interested in staring at women’s bodies. To focus on the part of me that wanted to be swept off my feet by a talented man. But I suppose, by electing to lock away that other part of myself, I chose essentially men. And rejected any kind of bisexual label.”

“You still reject that,” Santana points out.

Rachel shrugs, “I just don’t think it fits if I can’t love women.”

“It fits,” Kurt says firmly, “Because your feelings are sexual.”

“Semantics,” Rachel retorts, but tiredly, “It’s my identity.” She sighs, “But…yes. I suppose I am…a bit bisexual.”

“I’m just still baffled,” Santana admits, “That this isn’t something you’d embrace once you got to, say, high school or something. You had to have known that pamphlet was bullshit by then.”

Rachel shrugs a bit helplessly, “I suppose I did, yes, but I had so successfully suppressed that part of myself that I was able to write off any need to come out in any way. Besides which, do you really think I’d want to do that to myself? Give people another reason to torture me?”

Santana winces, noting that Rachel uses the word “people” rather than “you.” Somehow, glossing over it doesn’t make her feel any better.

Apparently, she’s not the only one with angsty thoughts, because abruptly, Rachel is crying, “I had such an _awful_ time throughout most of high school,” she admits brokenly, and though it’s not news in the slightest sense, Santana feels a fresh wave of pain and _guilt_. Kurt wraps an arm around Rachel, who sobs a bit more, “Even if I’d admitted it to myself then, how much I enjoyed looking at girls, I never would have told anyone. The bigots would blame my fathers, and,” she rounds on Santana suddenly, “Even you. Even you would not have acknowledged that perhaps we have it in common. You would have tortured me.”

Santana’s hand flies to her mouth to stifle a sob, and she barely registers Rachel mirroring the action, apparently shocked by her own outburst, but Santana just shakes her head furiously, “No, no, you’re right, I would have. I would have made you life even more of a hell than it was. Quinn, too. She and I were just so fucked up about sexuality in different ways, repressed and making bad choices, and _anyone_ brave enough to own their sexuality would have _infuriated_ us. But, god, Rachel, if you had…it would have torn Brittany and me apart. She would have _loved_ knowing you and her had something in common, and would have gotten so mad at me for being terrible to you for something _she_ also was.” Santana swallows, the thought of Brittany destroying her ability to stay on the subject, “She’s just…so sweet,” she moans brokenly, “I mean, she has a mean streak when she thinks she needs to protect something, even if that something is just what she thinks the truth is, and she…she was never all that crazy about what Quinn and I got up to, because, because she spent elementary school dealing with people calling her stupid because they didn’t understand that she learns things in a different way. And when we became friends, I did my best to protect her, but she never quite forgot, and it hurt her. She never would have let me do it, and I never would have backed down, and I can’t imagine my life without her,” she’s sobbing freely now, feeling so stupid as she does it, but then there are hugs, and even Kurt has a few tears on his face.

When they pull back from each other and wipe their faces, Santana just murmurs, “I’m so sorry.”

“You know I’ve already forgiven you, Santana,” Rachel answers sincerely.

Kurt breaks the tension to say cautiously, “Forgive me, Rachel, but you’ve…really never felt a romantic attraction to a woman? That just seems to strange.”

Rachel twists her mouth a little and says, “Once I thought there was…potential. But I’m glad there wasn’t. It would never work out anyway; there’s no way she’d want me. We’re better off as friends.”

Seeing Kurt’s morbidly curious expression and Rachel’s expression of clear regret, Santana interrupts the impending awkward storm to say, “Okay, but you’ve totally wanted to fuck girls before. So who was it? Me, Britts or Q?”

“I-I’m sorry?” Rachel stutters.

Santana chuckles, “Come on. We were the Unholy Trinity. Everyone who was attracted to girls wanted at least one of us, because I was the boobs, Britts was the legs and Q was the ass. So which were _you_ into?”

“Santana,” Kurt says somewhat sharply, and when she looks away from Rachel’s blushing face, he’s giving her a very pointed look that clearly says, _shut the hell up_.

“Fine, fine,” Santana huffs, “You don’t have to answer, I get it. Guess it would be awkward if you wanted to fuck your roommate, her girlfriend, or your best friend. Best to leave _those_ thoughts behind…”

Rachel seems incredibly relieved, and just muses, “I’m tempted to do just that. I think what I’ve learned from my encounter with Jeremy is that I cannot enjoy sex if there aren’t very strong romantic feelings attached. And since I’m incapable of feeling that way toward women, I believe I find myself in the same place I started.”

Santana makes a wounded expression, “You mean we’re not going pussy hunting together?”

The ensuing laughter settles it.

 

_Some ghastly predicament of mine_

 

It’s pretty difficult to think about sleep after that, so Kurt offers to make Santana some herbal tea to help her relax. She nods gratefully, and Rachel gets up off the couch to get a shower.

Kurt sits next to her a few moments later with two steaming mugs. Santana sips, winces at the heat. They sit in silence a few moments, listening to the water running in the bathroom, while they both attempt to wind down; Kurt also intends to get a bit more sleep before his afternoon work shift starts.

Santana side-eyes him and says, “Okay, I’ve gotta ask. What the fuck?”

Kurt twists his mouth and retorts, “If this is about my opinions on bisexuality, I don’t want to hear it.”

“What? No. You think whatever the hell you want. But why’d you stop me from teasing Rachel about who she’s attracted to? Hell, your and my friendship is entirely about teasing each other for being fucking gay as hell.”

Kurt stares at her hard for a few moments and then asks, “Are you serious?”

“Would we be having this conversation if I weren’t?”

Kurt glances at the bathroom door, as if not trusting that the sound of running water actually indicates Rachel is still in there, and lowers his voice, “Because it’s clear that the person Rachel thought there could be romantic potential with is you.”

Jaw dropping, Santana falls back hard against the couch for the second time that morning. “What the fuck?” she asks.

“Come on, it’s obvious,” Kurt lectures, “You’re better off as friends—she was thrilled to befriend you—she’s sure you wouldn’t want her because you have Brittany and everyone can see _that’s_ a forever match. And she didn’t want to tell you. I mean, this is Rachel Berry. Do you really think she’d be shy about telling you if she’d been attracted to Quinn or Brittany? It’s the only logical conclusion.”

“Fuck,” Santana mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Passion Pit, “Little Secrets,” and Purity Ring, “Obedear.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Jeremy: Male lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hook up at Gretchen's party  
> Gretchen: Female lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hash out their misconceptions of each other and land on mutual respect, if not quite like


	28. Making love with his ego

_Making love with his ego_

 

A/V Club meets after school on days that there isn’t Glee; when Glee meets, whether before or after school and occasionally during, changes to match sports practices as well as it can, but it’s just impossible to make it match all the other clubs. It hadn’t been easy when Artie had been in Glee, Brainiacs and football for him to make A/V club, but, probably because Annette was in it, he’d managed. Football season was long over, of course, and he missed it, but he’d also been happier to have more free time since. He wasn’t used in too many plays during games, but it had still been a lot of fun to just throw and catch with the guys, and even weight training practices had made him feel good. And right now, as the semester starts back up just after New Years, there’s a balance to his life and he can make all of his activities.

He rolls toward the school’s one elevator to head to the basement; the A/V Club often meets in the Visual Communications classroom, unless they’re setting up elsewhere on campus. He notices Mr. Schue is approaching, with a smile and a, “Hey, Artie.”

“Hey, Mr. Schue,” he nods. He likes the man, despite his tendency to oscillate wildly between being completely neglectful of his duties as the New Directions’ advisor and being kind of inappropriately involved in his students’ personal lives. But he’s usually well-meaning and kind, and Artie really can’t hate the man after he’d pushed the club, in Artie’s freshman year, to earn the money so he could ride with them to Sectionals. That had touched him, and he has felt indebted to his teacher since.

All the same, he kind of wants to get down there. He’s promised himself he’s going to have a conversation with Annette. He’s not entirely sure he’s going to manage to have a conversation about his _feelings_ with her, but he’s promised they’ll have a one-on-one conversation that lasts at least two minutes. They’ve managed to have a few of them, so far. So it’s with some reluctance that he reads the social cues and wheels up to him in order to stop in front of him to chat.

“Hey, I wanted to talk to you about the school musical, maybe,” Mr. Schue says.

Artie frowns, “Well, when no one said anything this fall, I assumed maybe there wasn’t enough funding or something. I didn’t want to push because I was pretty busy, but…”

Mr. Schue grimaces, “Well, I mean…there’s actually funding for two productions. Mr. Figgins said the school board intended there to be a fall play and a spring musical.” At Artie’s surprised and slightly miffed stare, he continues, “I didn’t say anything because…I knew Emma would want to help out again, and with the wedding coming up, she had enough on her plate already, and then we had to get settled down at our new place, and…” he sighs and shrugs, “But I mean, if you wanted, you could direct again this year. I’m sure Emma and Shannon would be happy to help as well.”

It’s weird for Artie to hear staff members referred to by their first names. He wonders if it’s because it’s still so weird for Mr. Schue to say “Mrs. Schuester.” It’s still hella weird for Artie and just about every other student he’s heard mention it. For the first time, Artie has a flash of understanding for why some women didn’t change their names after marriage; he’s having trouble getting used to Ms. Pillsbury’s—dammit, or, Mrs. Schuester’s—new name after only knowing her for three years. She’s had the same name for what, thirty-some years (Artie realizes he has no idea how old she is)?

But then he’s kinda pissed, actually. He would have loved to do two productions, he would have _found_ time for it, but Mr. Schue had taken the opportunity away from him for the sake of attempting to make sure his fiancé wouldn’t be _too distracted_ to focus on the wedding and the new marriage.

He tries to swallow his anger, but he’s not very good at that, honestly, “So, what exactly are you telling me here? Because of you, we can only do one show?”

Mr. Schue looks taken aback, and says, “I just didn’t want you to get overwhelmed, Artie. You or Emma.”

“Right,” Artie says, tone clipped, “Well, I’m late for A/V Club. I’ll talk to Ms. Pillsbury—sorry, Mrs. Schuester—and Coach Beiste next week.”

“Artie, wait,” Mr. Schue protests, and Artie finds, once again, that it’s hard to roll away from someone. They can almost always get in front of you to intercept you. “Look, I’m sorry that we’re down to one show, but it was for the best. For everyone’s sanity.”

Artie smiles, hoping it looks as twisted as it feels, “When did I ever say I wasn’t going to do both productions, Mr. Schue?”

He’s pleased to see Mr. Schue looks surprised, and steps aside when Artie continues to roll toward the elevator.

Artie loves directing. And the more experience he has, the better prepared he’ll be if he decides to study film in college.

He’ll start them both as soon as possible.

_I add another stone to the walls I built around you_

 

Visiting her friends and seeing Rachel’s play is the official reason she gives everyone for going to New York that weekend, but it’s just as much an excuse to get out of New Haven as anything else.

Not to diminish her friendships with Rachel, Santana and even Kurt, but it’s gotten pretty unbearable to be in her room. She’s avoided it as much as possible—studying in the library, or going over to Lulu’s house, or increasing the frequency of her runs, or making excuses for wanting to go see some things on campus—like the botanical garden, despite the fact that it’s winter—and making Sean come with her.

Sean and Lulu don’t ask any questions, but she can tell they’ve both noticed the awkwardness. In some kind of mutual, unspoken pact, Quinn and Stephanie continue to eat meals and spend time with the same circle of friends. The heavy silence that suffocates their dorm room is lifted at meals, but they rarely speak to each other, except to make vaguely passive-aggressive comments. Quinn feels like she’s slipping back into her high school self when she does things like raise an accusatory eyebrow at Stephanie if she brings cake back to the table (Stephanie isn’t exactly thin, after all, her flesh is soft and Quinn can remember how it felt to grasp it and—). Weight hadn’t even _been_ something Quinn would directly _attack_ in high school, it’s like she’s devolving, but…Stephanie is just making her so angry.

Stephanie had acted patient the first few days after things happened, like she thought maybe Quinn was having some kind of gay panic (which, maybe she _was_ , Quinn reflects, because all she knows is she was just _not ready_ to feel a woman shuddering and moaning on top of her, and everything snapped into moral focus after that). But once Quinn had made it clear that she did not want to resume making out, Stephanie seemed to take it as a personal affront. And while Quinn can understand a little (the other girl did make herself rather emotionally vulnerable by having an orgasm in Quinn’s presence), she also doesn’t understand why Stephanie can’t respect that it feels wrong, because of what they did to Steve (who, why the hell is he so understanding about this?).

However, Stephanie does petty bitch better than even Santana, and Quinn finds herself burning with rage every time. Whether it’s stupid little things like Stephanie snarking about bottle blondes when she sees one of those girls in sweatpants and Uggs, her eyes flashing mockingly toward Quinn, or even just snidely commenting that she doesn’t understand how men could be attracted to flat-chested women, it’s exactly the kind of petty backbiting that gets to Quinn. Because she’s spent years of her life trying to accept that other people see her as pretty (something she thinks she can see objectively, even if her feeling never matches), that anything cutting into her appearance she takes like a knife in the heart.

But one of the most ridiculous things is when Stephanie decides to flaunt a boy in Quinn’s face.

It happens after another of their shared English classes—this one scheduled together purposely back when they first started really getting along. And who else should be in this class but that annoying ass-kisser Quinn is sure she’s seen quite enough of last semester?

Quinn doesn’t know what it is about this guy that drives her insane. She understands wanting to be engaged in class—she herself tends to power through her own shyness to answer and ask questions in class. But this guy just…his questions are generally a way for him to show that he knows something a bit above and beyond about a topic, or are just completely off-topic to begin with. Quinn always glares at him for derailing class discussion, but the professors love him.

He’s charming, that’s part of the problem. He’s good looking with an easy laugh and exudes charisma with ease. And the charm seems to work on everyone except Quinn. She remembers complaining to Stephanie last semester, in late October when they were starting to really become friends.

“I hate that Lucas guy,” she’d griped as they walked together out of their history class that they shared with him.

“Lucas Lehman?” Stephanie had queried in surprise, using his full name like he was some kind of celebrity, which just irked Quinn further, “What? Why?”

“He’s such a show-offy ass kisser. I don’t care that he happens to have a lot of trivial knowledge about Hindu history. It’s not even relevant to class discussion.”

Stephanie smiled a little, “Oh, I dunno. I don’t mind. He keeps things interesting, plus, he’s cute.”

Quinn had rolled her eyes so hard it hurt, “Yeah, okay. That changes everything.”

Stephanie at that point had just laughed at Quinn and the subject had dropped. Quinn had seethed silently at Lucas’s antics after that, but it’s now apparent that Stephanie hasn’t forgotten about their conversation.

Because they sit next to each other in English class—still keeping up appearances, Quinn supposes. However, when the professor asks them to break off into groups to discuss a passage of poetry, Stephanie immediately waves Lucas over.

He grins and sidles over to slide into a seat next to Stephanie, “Hey, Stephanie,” he greets with a grin, and then gives Quinn a slightly wider one, “Hey, Quinn.”

“Lucas,” Quinn greets briefly, keeping her face blank.

“Lucas Lehman,” Stephanie gushes, and his eyes actually flash happily at her use of his full name, “Would you do us the honor of working with us?”

“Sure!”

It’s not completely out of the blue, Quinn supposes. She knows Stephanie had another class with him last semester, and since this semester started, they’ve been chatting a bit before class starts. But now, here’s Stephanie, giggling and flirting over this guy that Quinn hates, just to piss her off.

As she gathers her things to leave class, she hears Stephanie and Lucas chatting amiably over by her desk. She doesn’t wait for Stephanie and just leaves, and by the time the other girl catches up, she’s glowing.

“I’ll be hanging out with Lucas this weekend,” she reports with a smug grin.

“That’s great,” Quinn grits, “I’ll be out of town.”

“Oh, Quinn,” Stephanie murmurs with false sincerity, “You don’t have to leave town just so you won’t box-block me.”

Quinn would probably snort at this if not for one aspect: Steve. Because even though Stephanie is doing this to try to hurt her, Stephanie’s intention is the only thing that’s hurting Quinn directly. Otherwise, she’s upset on Steve’s behalf. How is it going to look and feel to him to see Stephanie talking blithely about cheating on him with a girl that she then wants to continue getting physical with and then, two weeks later, all over some new guy?

So she just elects to ignore Stephanie and they walk in irksome silence back to their dorm room, where Quinn gets dressed to take a run in the freezing cold to clear her mind.

So Quinn can’t help but have that in the back of her mind as she takes the train out of New Haven.

In spite of all that frustration and anxiety, though, she is pretty eager to see Rachel in her play, and at the prospect of spending time with her friends is forefront in her mind. She makes it into the city in the early afternoon. Rachel is there to meet her, looking…yeah, rough is probably the best word.

Quinn’s about to inquire whether Rachel is alright when her friend moves in for what Quinn expects to be one of their almost perfunctory hugs—the hugs that ignore the holes in their friendship. But she melts into Rachel in an entirely genuine way, a reaction to Rachel’s appearance, perhaps, and she’s surprised when Rachel buries her face in Quinn’s shoulder and holds on for longer than usual—and they do usually hug for long moments.

“Are you okay?” Quinn murmurs somewhere in the vicinity of Rachel’s ear.

Rachel nods against her and murmurs back, “It’s just really good to see you.”

Quinn smiles unconsciously, “You, too,” she responds genuinely.

Rachel finally disengages from the hug and smiles, turning quickly so that they’ll be walking side by side. She’s not as casually chatty as she usually is, so Quinn keeps finding excuses to look at her, glancing to take in her profile with the furrowed brow, dark circles under her eyes, messy hair and mildly pouty lips. _Something_ is on her mind, and if Quinn didn’t know Rachel so well, she’d assume stage fright. But there’s no way.

But just in case, she asks how the previous night’s show went, and as she suspects, Rachel just full on grins and tells her it went really, really well, before returning to her preoccupied, troubled expression.

They take Quinn’s bags back to the apartment and then have time to run out for a quick early dinner before Rachel has to be at the theater to get ready for the night’s performance; Quinn will be hanging out in the lobby doing homework until the play begins. At dinner, Rachel is slightly more talkative, but still preoccupied.

“Everything still starting out well this semester?” Quinn asks over slices of pizza at a little table tucked into the corner of the tiny pizza shop.

Rachel smiles, “So far, still good. Musical theory might be a challenge. I mean, I’m familiar with so much of it, but not quite in this depth.” She scowls a little, thoughtfully, “I really wish McKinley had a good music program. You know, some high schools offer musical theory. And though we did have exceptional band instructor, he was not a teacher. I wish he had been.”

Quinn nods and waits for Rachel to ask about her own semester, feeling the desire to unload a little about the drama, but Rachel is uncharacteristically impolite, and merely lapses into thoughtful silence once more, and _God_ this is frustrating.

“My semester’s a little weird,” Quinn tries, and when Rachel just nods absently, not making eye contact, she puffs out a frustrated breath and asks, a bit sharply, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Rachel winces slightly, probably at Quinn’s tone, which just makes Quinn feel worse. Rachel stares at her slice of pizza for a moment before saying quietly, “Yes, I’m sorry. I just had a long night. Too much cast partying.”

Quinn just stares hard a moment, knowing that the explanation doesn’t make sense, before nodding and letting her expression soften. “I get it. I’m sorry for getting frustrated.”

Rachel exhales slowly in relief and gives her a little grin, “It’s okay. I’m sorry I’m so exhausted today.”

“You should be saving your energy for the stage anyway,” Quinn tells her lightly, hiding her disappointment as she drops the subject entirely.

 

_I saw a falling star burn up_

 

Rachel’s play is fascinating. Quinn’s actually a little surprised she’s involved in it because it’s not a musical, but she thinks perhaps Rachel was attracted to the plot, the way she is.

She doesn’t know the myth of Theseus all that well, just that there is something about a labyrinth and a minotaur. The plot of the play is very loosely based on this idea and seems to mostly involve college students who discover some kind of disturbing biology experiment (the minotaur) in a basement science lab (the labyrinth), and their ethical dilemmas on what to do with it. And there are some elements reminiscent of _Frankenstein_ —how sentient is the minotaur? Is it a person? The main character is conflicted about what should be done, but his girlfriend believes it would be ethical to kill it, and her sister—Rachel’s character—believes it deserves to live.

It’s not an entirely realistic story. Of course there would be so many issues with the college at large, and ethical bodies overseeing scientific research, but that’s mostly glossed over. The crux of the play revolves mostly around that ethical dilemma about what it means to be a person, and that itself is fascinating.

And Rachel…the part is perfect for her, because she _would_ be the person who would fight for the human rights of a botched experiment. She’s just…Quinn can barely believe sometimes the depth of her heart. It’s not even her vegan principles that express this. Her levels of empathy got clouded sometimes—okay, a lot—in high school when Rachel would act selfishly about her dreams and desires and talents, but Quinn had actually admired that about Rachel. She was _driven_ in Quinn’s mind, not selfish. But her heart…the number of times she’d made it clear to everyone in Glee club that she cared about them. And Quinn. Quinn remembers each time vividly, how she would act like an absolute _monster_ to Rachel only to be reciprocated with forgiveness and empathy. Most of the time. When Finn didn’t come between them.

And even though it is, perhaps, not the most challenging role for Rachel to slip into, she’s absolutely impressive at it. The male lead and his girlfriend have tons of chemistry, but there’s even some between him and Rachel. Quinn’s pretty sure he isn’t supposed to have romantic potential with Rachel’s character, but somehow they’re expressing an awkward pull toward one another that makes the Theo character’s dilemma all the more interesting.

So when Rachel enters the lobby of the theater—alone, this time, not laughing with any of her costars like after the musical—Quinn is prepared to give her a huge, proud hug. And Rachel actually makes a beeline right for Quinn, ignoring the other people trying to get her attention, and eagerly accepts the hug. She slumps into Quinn, clearly exhausted, and holds on for a good, long time.

Quinn rests her cheek against Rachel’s head for several long moments, her eyes closed, She opens them after a moment to notice the two leads of the play—the guy who played Theo and the girl who played his girlfriend Ari—are both observing her and Rachel. The guy’s forehead is wrinkled thoughtfully and the girl has both eyebrows raised in interest. Quinn closes her eyes again.

Rachel murmurs, “Can you take me home?”

“Of course,” Quinn whispers, “You okay?”

“Exhausted,” Rachel explains again. Quinn believes her. She had been animated and heartfelt onstage and that kind of activity had to take a lot out of her.

“Let’s go,” Quinn speaks quietly, “Do you have everything?”

“Let me grab my bag.”

Rachel weaves her way back through the crowd. She gives big smiles to those who stop her to congratulate her, but manages to disengage from conversation quickly. The lead female has found something else to engage her attention, but the male manages to watch Rachel while communicating with audience members trying to talk to him.

They head back to the apartment, with Rachel resting her head against Quinn’s shoulder the whole time they ride the train. Once back, Rachel basically stumbles around to get ready for bed as quickly as possible and collapses into bed. Quinn, though she doesn’t feel tired at all, lays with her. It’s either that or sit with Kurt in the living room, and she’s still not sure about hanging out with him one on one. Besides which, he looks grumpy and exhausted himself.

Quinn can’t sleep. Rachel curls up tightly and Quinn ends up spooning her out of necessity for space. She can hear Rachel’s deep, slow breaths, and if she sits up a little, she can see the way her lips are parted and the way her eyelashes look so long on her cheeks, even with the mascara washed off.

Quinn’s thoughts race and sleep doesn’t seem to be imminent. Her body is just so alert and alive, like Rachel has stolen its desire to sleep. She feels full of knowledge and secrets and fears and doubts and _wants_ to talk. A part of her wants to wake up Rachel, but she can’t look at that sleeping face and keep the urge to disturb her. Besides, Rachel hasn’t shifted once since falling asleep. She’s clearly _out_ and she clearly needs the sleep.

So at around 2:00am, Quinn gets up, slowly, quietly and carefully. Rachel _does_ finally stir when Quinn moves, but subsides into sleep again. Quinn moves slowly and cautiously over to Santana’s bed and slides into the sheets. She inhales the scent of her friend—familiar, fond, and reminiscent of so many high school nights.

It’s in Santana’s bed that she finally manages to fall asleep.

 

_I’ve told ripples in the brook_

 

Work is frustrating. No one has hours, and the employees all whisper together, asking who got how many hours this week, comparing notes. Everyone’s have been cut, for those working overnight at least—a few day workers are still get forty hours. Those who have been there long enough know that this is normal and tell the others that hours should pick back up later in the month, but everyone is still stressing. And at the same time, there seems to be too much work for the amount of people they’ve scheduled. So they’re run ragged at the same time as they stress about not making enough.

She gets home bleary-eyed and looking forward to having the day off—especially for going to see Rachel’s play. She always likes having plans on her nights off, gets her out of the apartment.

But when she enters the bedroom and peers toward her bed, her heart lurches violently at the head of blonde hair she sees nestled into her pillow. Irrationally, for a moment she believes Brittany has come to see her, but in a moment, she remembers that Quinn is in town, and a glance toward Rachel’s bed confirms that this must be Quinn—the shade and length is not right for Brittany at closer inspection. But…what the hell? Why is Quinn in her bed? For another moment she remembers Brittany forbidding her from making out with Quinn, which just produces a few random, dirty images that she quickly becomes disturbed by. She really _doesn’t_ think about _her straight friend_ Quinn that way.

So instead, she reaches over to gently shake her awake. Bleary hazel eyes open and Santana hisses, not entirely unkindly, “what the fuck are you doing in my bed?”

Quinn sits up and rubs at her face, murmuring croakily, “I needed to catch you before you went to bed. I need to talk to you.”

Santana rolls her eyes, “And It can’t wait until I wake up?”

“No,” hisses Quinn, clearly annoyed, “It can’t. Come get a coffee with me?”

Santana flaps her mouth a moment, “Are you fucking kidding me?” she pitches her voice in a low growl, glancing at Rachel to be sure they’re not waking her, “I need to sleep, goddamnit!”

“Sleep later,” Quinn commands in a whisper, somehow calling on her Head Cheerio expression despite her obviously exhaustion.

Santana stares at her for a moment before sighing exaggeratedly and grabbing for her coat again, “Fine,” she snarls as quietly as she can, stalking out of her bedroom.

The things she does for pretty blondes…

Quinn emerges a few minutes later, dressed and bundled up in a coat. “Where do you want to get coffee?”

“You’re serious?” Santana shakes her head, “Ugh. Fine. There’s a Starbucks that’s probably the closest. Although the Dunkin Donuts probably isn’t much further.”

“Starbucks,” Quinn nods. Santana rolls her eyes hard in response and they leave the apartment together, trekking the several blocks to Starbucks in relative silence. It’s still early and cold on a Saturday morning, so the streets aren’t particularly busy, which just makes their silence feel thick and potent. Santana glances at Quinn a lot and notes her troubled expression and _tries_ to care about whatever it is that’s eating Quinn, but honestly, she just wishes she were in bed.

Once there, they both order coffee—Santana a bit begrudgingly, but she knows it will at least help her mood to have a little caffeine, and Quinn leads them over to a table in the corner, settling down with her hands wrapped around her paper cup, her eyes downcast. Santana sits across from her, trying not to scowl as she sips her latte.

“Alright, so what the fuck is so important that you won’t let me go to sleep?” she drawls.

Quinn lets out a slow breath and twists her cup in her hands a few times, before lifting her eyes, dark, and with bags under them, and saying softly, “This isn’t easy. You’re only the second person I’ve told.”

Santana just stares for a minute and twists her mouth in a mix of anger and sympathy, “Please, god, tell me you’re not pregnant, Quinn.”

“No,” Quinn colors, eyes dropping again. “Not even close.” She inhales deeply again and then barely vocalizes, “I’m gay, Santana.”

Santana falls back into her chair, “Oh, no _fucking_ way,” she groans. Quinn’s gaze snaps back up, clearly surprised. Santana shakes her head, “Oh you’ve _got_ to be kidding me. What the hell, Quinn?”

Quinn scowls, “Okay, thanks _so_ much for your support. What is your problem?”

Santana throws up her hands, “My _problem_ is I’ve been the sexuality police for you for, like, ever! Defending your supposed heterosexuality! Because, _jesus_ , it’s not like you _haven’t_ tripped my gaydar a few times, but I always believed you when you said you were straight, because, you know, evidence? You spent damn near all of high school fighting other girls over boyfriends. You had a goddamn _baby_. I figured if you _weren’t_ , you would have _told me_! You know! Your gay best friend?!”

Quinn presses her mouth together, “I appreciate you defending me, I _guess_ , but when’s the last time I even claimed to be straight, Santana?”

“This summer!” Santana growls, “When Brittany was all, oh, your girlfriend Joe!” Quinn raises an eyebrow, and Santana completes the thought, remembering that all Quinn had said was that she wasn’t bi. “You clever bitch,” she scowls. “Well, whatever. I don’t know how you expected me to react. I mean, how did Rachel, ACLU member at age 6, react?”

Quinn’s eyes dart away and she licks her lips. “Um,” she starts, “I haven’t told Rachel yet. I only told Lauren Zizes.”

“ _Zizes_ ,” Santana shrieks, causing the barista to stare for a moment, “You told _Zizes_ before me?!” She shakes her head, “and why the _fuck_ haven’t you told Rachel yet? She’s like, possibly more of your best friend than me at this point, and you _know_ she’d have your back!”

Quinn just keeps looking away, her lips pressed together now, and Santana stares for five full seconds before she finally utters, “Oh, my god.” Quinn squeezes her eyes shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from David Bowie, “Ziggy Stardust,” The Oh Hellos, “Hello My Old Heart,” Joni Mitchell, “This Flight Tonight,” and Linda Scott, “I’ve Told Every Little Star” (originally from Music in the Air).
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, Stephanie took things a bit further than Quinn was prepared for, things are weird  
> Steve: Stephanie's ex-boyfriend, also a Yale student, not doing well in his classes  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, Quinn's friend  
> Lulu: Quinn's Yale friend, they take the Feminism seminar together  
> Lucas: Previously alluded to, named in this chapter, suck-up student


	29. I don't need a trophy for all the games I've played

_I don’t need a trophy for all the games I’ve played_

 

She can remember certain parts of her childhood were actually pretty happy. Like dance class. A requirement of all Fabray women, sure, but Quinn really enjoyed the classes, back when she was a cute kid with a little bit of baby fat and light auburn hair: _Lucy_. Before that baby fat multiplied and made her so she was one of the kids weeded out by the natural selection of the dance culture.

Back then she had actually been a very sweet kid. A strong sense of empathy. And when the process first began, and one little girl who was the chubbiest in the class started getting bullied until she quit, little Lucy _ached_ for that girl. And not because she thought she’d be next; Lucy was friends with everyone and never believed for a second that they would treat her the way they treated that girl. Still, keeping all those other friends became the bigger priority than losing the one friend that was being driven out: a decision Lucy systematically made each time. She’d seen her mother socialize with other women, had seen the way she’d simply smile and agree to keep the peace. So that’s what Lucy did, too, until it wasn’t enough to stand silently by. She had to toss the barbs herself, because, didn’t she look a little bit more like the girls they were forcing out? Especially since she’d had to get glasses, and her parents were talking about braces…

But when it became clear that Lucy’s body just wasn’t going to be thin like the other girls—perhaps it was because she was not a very active child outside of weekly dance classes, because running around outside was unladylike—the teasing and cruelty began, and ten-year-old Lucy quit dance class and lost all her friends in one fell swoop. The cruel nicknames and taunts at school started soon after, and it was all Lucy could do to just read and pretend her life was anything but this. Which didn’t help her weight.

She was no angel, though. The kind of pain inflicted on her by others completely dulled her sense of empathy until she couldn’t feel any pain outside her own. But the part of empathy that gave her the ability to see into other people still existed, and when Lucy would see the few kids below her on the social ladder, she would keenly pick out the things they were most afraid of. She would see herself as them and, through their eyes, pick out their faults and shames. She called the young girl with a unibrow who preferred her hair short—a girl so low no one generally even bothered to talk to her—a cave man and a lumberjack, and when the girl started plucking her eyebrows and wearing makeup, trying to get Lucy’s taunts to end, Lucy kept on, telling her she would never make any money being a lumberjack hooker and she should just give up. The girl eventually transferred schools and, ironically, it was probably entirely due to the torment of Lucy Caboosey, who transferred schools herself only months later.

She wonders, now, if what her empathetic instincts perceived in that girl was a bit too frightening for her to confront, and _that’s_ why she was absolutely unable to leave that girl alone.

Because between the times that Lucy—no longer that sweet kid, as if shedding her cute childhood physique for this fat, hideous adolescent one had replaced her personality as well—tormented her downtrodden peers, she couldn’t help but realize that she felt…funny around girls.

It wasn’t entirely new. She even remembers it a few times in dance class. The time there was a new student—a very graceful, tall for her age redhead—and Lucy felt herself blushing every time she spoke her name. Watching the way her teacher’s legs flexed and bent and feeling _weird_ every time her gaze rose and locked on the crotch of her leotard. Even her first day of dance class, at age five, how she distinctly felt _prickly_ as they all changed into their tights and leotards, and how she knew it was so _wrong_ for girls to show their bare top halves, but she _wanted_ to look, even with nothing to see.

She’d never been anything close to a tomboy—even if she’d wanted to be, which she can’t be sure about, it never would have been allowed in her house—but she thought, at the time, that she felt a little bit “boy-ish” around some girls.

But it got worse, the older she got. She’d look at the most popular girls in school—not realizing that they were awkward, gawky, half-formed messes of incomplete adolescent persons—and feel a low twisting in her gut that was half envy and half…something else. And during gym class, she’d find the most secluded corner she could to change her clothes—knowing someone would point at her, or grab a roll of flesh at her waist, or smack her sizeable rear end and laugh and laugh—but she would always find her eyes drifting up and around. She told herself she was keeping an eye out for possible attacks, but she also knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she was hoping to _see_ something. Once, one of the semi-popular girls caught her eye, and she endured over a week of teasing about trying to “sneak a peek” before they moved on. Somehow, it was the most miserable week of Lucy’s middle school life.

But the way Lucy’s natural empathy had morphed into insight of weakness that made her bullying more effective turned out to be exactly what Quinn needed, or felt she needed. She had attended cheer camp the summer before ninth grade, before she’d even stepped foot in McKinley High. When her sister had been in high school, she had been a cheerleader. Not only did she know the kind of status that warranted—status she _craved_ , because being _Lucy_ , that fat little nobody, had been _hell_ —she also knew how many boys had wanted Frannie. And Quinn needed that. Boys to want her.

And at first, it was so strange. There she was, surrounded by the same types of girls who had been so awful to her, and she felt as though she had no idea what to say to them. Even though they looked at her with more curiosity than criticism—with the exception of the Hispanic girl, who seemed to look at _everything_ with criticism—Quinn was inwardly _terrified_ to be around them.

The first person to speak to her was a charming, friendly blonde, a little taller than her, who asked her what shade of lip gloss she was wearing. Quinn had stumbled over her words slightly at first before standing taller—she’d been working on her posture, like everything else—and answering her with her best attempt at affected boredom. The blonde her nodded and they’d talked about makeup for a few moments more before she introduced herself as Brittany and pointed to the Hispanic girl standing nearby and glaring and introduced her as her best friend Santana. Quinn had merely nodded coolly, stoically told Brittany it was nice to meet her, and as unobtrusively as possible, began to stand close to the two of them at practice. They were going to be freshmen, like her, and, from what she could tell, they were the best freshmen there.

She had been right. Every day the first week, Sue Sylvester would send other girls home crying. Mostly incoming freshmen, hoping to make the squad, but a few older girls, some even on the squad the previous year, who Sylvester was convinced had gotten “lazy” and “fat” over the summer. To her relief, Quinn, Santana and Brittany lasted the first week. Quinn went home that weekend and stared at her naked body in the mirror for hours, noting stretch marks on her thighs and the size of her ass, gripping the love handles at her hips, and spent the weekend running. Like she’d done every day of the summer so far.

Back at cheer camp for week two, she continued to spend time near Santana and Brittany, listening to them and otherwise mostly just smiling at Brittany and exchanging brief words. She would listen as Santana would hiss in Brittany’s ear, “Jodi can’t do a split to save her life, and have you seen the flab on her arms? No way is Coach keeping her.” Or “with as much cock as Lindsay swallowed this summer I’m surprised she hasn’t gained more weight.” Brittany would generally giggle, sometimes tell Santana not to be so loud, and every once in awhile, tell Santana not to be so mean.

At one point, they were watching some of the older girls already on the squad go through a routine and Quinn heard Santana murmur, “Oh holy fuck, I think I saw a flash of bush. What is up with Danielle’s pubes?” And Quinn, despite blushing furiously because trying to remove _that_ had been something _new_ she’d begun before cheer camp, and it unnerved her greatly, thought, _go big or go home_. And leaned over to murmur, loud enough for the to the two of them to hear, “I think she’s hoping they’ll hide that hickey on her thigh.” Not that she’d been _looking_.

Santana’s mouth had dropped open and then twisted into a delighted snicker and her eyes flashed from Quinn to Danielle. Brittany had glanced at Quinn in surprise.

What they had failed to notice was that Sue Sylvester was right behind them, and merely seconds later, called a halt to the routine.

“As Fabray noted,” Sylvester had lectured; Quinn blushed hotly, “Carpenter, your inner thigh.”

The second in command to the Head Cheerio had gaped, her mouth flopping, before showing one thigh. Sylvester ordered her head Cheerio to slap that thigh hard and then demanded to see the other one where, just as Quinn had noticed, there was a hickey, just below the apex of thigh and pelvis.

Coach Sylvester had removed Danielle Carpenter on the spot and then turned to Quinn herself, with a gleam in her eye. “I like your style, Fabray,” she’d drawled, “You have an eye for detail, and you have no hesitation about voicing your distaste. You’re ruthless. Not everyone would dare to criticize the second in command to the head Cheerio, especially a lowly incoming freshman like yourself.” Quinn had attempted to hold her head high and hoped she wasn’t blushing, “Let’s see you perform the routine, then. Choose two girls to do it with you. Let’s see if you act as well as you talk.”

Quinn had turned her gaze to Brittany and Santana, the former looking impressed, the latter somewhat incredulous and jealous. But both nodded and walked with her to the patch of grass where they would perform.

As they huddled together, Santana seemed about ready to snarl, but Quinn spoke first, “Do not screw this up for me,” she’d growled, “And we will all benefit. I could get us all onto the Cheerios right now. Work with me, please?”

The girls had nodded. They had, somehow, executed the routine flawlessly. Coach Sylvester had looked awestruck—not a common look for her—and immediately promoted Quinn to second in command herself, and promised Brittany and Santana spots on the squad as well. And for the first time, Quinn heard the phrase, “You remind me of a young Sue Sylvester.”

Having earned this position (by doing what Santana always did and getting _caught_ ), and even earning a higher one halfway through her freshman year when the Head Cheerio had an accident and broke her leg—at least, Santana still claimed to this day that it was an accident—cemented how Quinn would approach high school before she even set foot in the building. Ruthlessly. Flanked by Brittany and Santana. Clad in a Cheerios uniform the very first day, so that every student could take a good, long look at the new girl—the new Cheerios second in command. She watched Santana and Brittany unobtrusively, learned who it was okay to speak to—though, that was fairly obvious, as like her middle school, it tended to be attractive people who dressed well.

Watching Santana and Brittany, though, showed her quickly that one of their tactics to gain popularity was…well… _sex_. That horrifying thing that Quinn was positive she had no interest in doing until she was married to a man she would _love_ and want to sacrifice for. And that was where she put her foot down. She joined Celibacy Club. Brittany and Santana had howled with laughter until Quinn convinced the head Cheerio (pre-broken leg) to join with her, pointing out that she _really_ wouldn’t want a mistake like Danielle Carpenter’s to ruin their chances at the championships. And after that, all the Cheerios joined, and more or less pushed out the awkward, mousy girls who had run the club before.

It was for that reason, perhaps, that Quinn really didn’t get a boyfriend until school was almost over. Once the boys heard she joined the club, they tended to chase the other girls—who, it became rapidly obvious, didn’t take their celibacy vows so seriously. But Finn Hudson, whose size gave him advantages on the football field and basketball court other freshmen lacked and who therefore made both teams, wanted her, and, it seemed, was too ignorant to actually know what celibacy meant.

It was convenient that he asked her out before school was over. She had time to “think about it,” and when he was selected as quarterback during summer football tryouts, she accepted. And then proceeded to ignore him for most of the summer, which seemed to suit them both fine, because it became rapidly obvious that they had almost nothing in common. Though despite not a whole lot of contact that summer, she at least was able to convince him that watching him and Puck play video games was not considered a “date,” and that he could earn the right to make out with her if he bought her dinner.

But through all this, and especially when she became head Cheerio, Quinn fought to maintain her position of power in the only way she knew how: tormenting those lower than her.

Like Rachel Berry. The girl that just…she has to admit that the first time she saw her, it made her heart ache. But by then, she knew to interpret that kind of empathetic response as _prey_. This girl, more than anyone else for God knew what reason, reminded her of Lucy. Maybe it was the nose, the one Quinn had traded in with the name Lucy (the surgery that had made her father smile fully at her for the first time in years). Maybe the vocabulary; enough confused expressions and murmurs of “what?” from Brittany had been enough for Quinn to reduce her own from the verbosity of Lucy’s mind.

The biggest, most obvious difference, however, was the _confidence_. That obvious expression of self-worth that _poured_ off of Rachel Berry, the product of loving parents and achievable dreams that Quinn lacked entirely (she didn’t know _what_ she wanted out of life now that she had made her goal of becoming beautiful and popular, and she had no idea how to take her parents’ sudden barrage of compliments now that she _was_ beautiful and popular). The confidence that, Quinn knew, made Rachel very, very _attractive_ but for the fact that she dressed like a maladjusted social retard. It was that, she thinks, that made her _attack_ Rachel with a savage ferocity that even surprised Santana at its outset.

It was simple at first. Verbal barbs. She’d heard about the way Rachel had been teased in middle school for changing in the stalls during gym, and had revived the “tranny” insults. It wasn’t much more than that freshman year. A few slushies, though those were mostly used by upperclassmen in their own feuds. Quinn never threw a slushie, though, she never objected to anyone doing so.

By sophomore year, it was just about the only thing that made her feel good, watching Rachel Berry get bullied. It wasn’t even the _good_ kind of good. The empty kind that let her stand up straight and walk away and completely and utterly forget about the girl named Lucy that lived inside her. And forgetting Lucy is all she wanted.

But Rachel…God knew how, but Rachel never, ever got upset with her. And given the chance, Rachel would even speak civilly to her. This _friendless_ girl had the _gall_ to stare at Quinn with huge eyes, swimming with _pity_. For _Quinn_. It drove Quinn insane.

But then, their first real conversation. Not like the other ones, where Rachel would extend a friendly hand and Quinn would slap it away childishly. No, the one where Rachel approached her, imploring her to stay in Glee club because they could be her real friends, the ones who would stick by her when the rest of the school turned against her for being pregnant. And when Rachel walked away, Quinn felt her eyes _follow_. And something within her warm.

This only intensified when Rachel sang “Keep Holdin’ On” _right at her_ and Quinn had cried, in a mixture of self-pity and shame and regret for the torture she inflicted on that girl who in some strange and frightening way, made Quinn’s body warm and her heart pound.

Retrospectively, Quinn is sure that that’s when she began to fall for Rachel Berry.

 

_Hands down I’m too proud to love_

 

“I kinda knew, you know,” Santana says softly.

Quinn looks at her and raises an eyebrow, “Knew?”

Santana shrugs a little bit uncomfortably, “I guess I kinda knew you were in love with Rachel, I just…didn’t put it together fully.”

Quinn’s eyes dart away uncomfortably, “I don’t know if…” she sighs, “Yeah, I guess I think I’m in love with her, but I don’t know…unrequited love is unrealistic and idealized. I don’t know if I consider it real love.”

Santana nods uncertainly, “Yeah, okay, I get that. I mean, I’ve kinda been there, you know? In love with the best friend?”

Quinn rolls her eyes, “With Brittany? Come on. At least you got to kiss and have sex with her. I’ll _never_ get to do that Rachel because she’s _straight_!”

Santana’s mouth opens and she snaps it shut again, wincing. She can’t believe that she almost _told_. She knows what it’s like to _be_ outed…So instead she sighs a little. “Look, okay, I’ve watched you two. That’s why it doesn’t really surprise me that you’ve got a thing for her. I’ve seen the way you look at her, I watched you _beg_ her not to marry Finn, I’ve watched you buy her things, and hug her for too long, and watch _her_ instead of what’s on the TV screen. I honestly really should have figured this out on my own. For god’s sake, Quinn, you somehow convinced me at Prom that we both had an amazing time in high school just so you could give her the crown. Like, two minutes later, I was thinking back on your words and went, _is Q fucking kidding me? I was miserable and closeted throughout high school and she was homeless and got hit by a fucking truck_. But whatever, you persuasive bitch, I get it now. It was all for Rachel, right? But don’t think I haven’t noticed that shit got weird between you two lately.”

Quinn blows out her breath, “She just…stopped confiding in me. I had to hear from _Blaine_ of all people that she and Finn are totally done. I guess something else happened between them that she never told me about? I don’t know. It’s just like ever since Finn started writing to her, she’s shut me out!”

Santana rolls her eyes, “Gee, _maybe_ she can tell that _you’re_ hiding something from her and doesn’t _trust_ you!”

Quinn winces this time and looks away again. “Yeah, well, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that. I came out to you and within a minute, you figured out I have feelings for Rachel. I can’t afford her realizing that.”

Santana glares at the tabletop, because…Quinn might be right. Maybe it _would_ screw everything up. Especially if Kurt is right and _Santana_ is the only woman Rachel has had a romantic connection with—which, she’ll defer to his judgment on that, it _would_ explain some things about how forgiving and caring Rachel has been to her. She doesn’t want Quinn’s coming out to drive a wedge between all three of them. But at the same time… “That’s bullshit. She won’t judge you. Hell, who says she’ll even figure it out?” She bites her lip, thinking about how Rachel hasn’t told Quinn about her bisexual leanings, about, paradoxically, how long it’s taken _Rachel Berry_ to be comfortable with that aspect of herself, “Look. It’s a conversation you have to invite, Q. It’s creating a rift in your friendship, and you’re the only one who can fix it. Rachel never will. Because like it or not, you’ll probably always have the power in this friendship, because of how long she spent being afraid of you.”

“Dammit, Santana,” Quinn mutters brokenly, but Santana pushes on.

“Dammit, Quinn, you have to do this. She _won’t_. And it’s not like she’ll be uncomfortable with your sexuality!”

“ _I’m_ not comfortable with my sexuality,” Quinn hisses, and the way her eyes dart around the coffee shop, with its steady stream of customers that completely ignore them, just emphasizes that fear, “I’m a Fabray, Santana. I’m too stubborn, proud, vain and insecure to make a first move in _anything_ , even something that would save my friendship with the most important woman in the world to me.”

Santana stares for another minute and then murmurs, “Quinn, I’m most of those things too, and I did it for Brittany.” They make eye contact for another few moments, Quinn blinking away tears and Santana hoping her sympathy is actually coming through in her gaze, before Quinn finally snorts and rolls her eyes. Santana instantly gets it, “Okay, I guess I was kinda brutally kicked out of the closet, so maybe I didn’t put _so_ much of my pride on the line for Brittany, but you get what I mean.”

Quinn tilts her head, “I thought you didn’t think what Finn did was that bad.”

Santana grunts, “In the long run, I’m kinda glad he did it, because it did end up meaning I could have Brittany and not have to keep it a secret. But after watching Rachel cry over him for a couple months? Yeah that kinda makes me a little more bitter toward the guy.” Quinn twists her mouth and looks away with hurt in her eyes, and it’s clear both that she agrees, she got pretty upset with him, too, and that she _aches_ for Rachel, and _aches_ that Rachel hadn’t told her about this. So Santana changes the subject, “I still can’t believe you told Zizes before you told _me_. Your other best friend,” she grumbles.

Quinn meets her eyes again, the eyebrow lifting, “Since when have we ever been the kind of friends who confide in each other? Santana, we were friends for status and when we hung out, it wasn’t _really_ us hanging out. Heck, I didn’t even tell you I was pregnant.”

“Yet another reason I believed you were straight,” Santana folds her arms and looks away, “You know, maybe I’d like to be that kind of friend with you.”

“I would, too,” Quinn answers softly, “It’s just…how do we change how we interact? We know each other so well, but not…what’s in our heads.”

They’re silent for a moment, until Santana finally says, “I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell me about the pregnancy.”

Quinn raises her eyebrow again, “I accept, I guess? Do you get why I felt that way?”

Santana sighs, “Of course. Because I would have stabbed you in the back in a heartbeat. And god, once I did find out, I was awful to you.”

“You were,” Quinn responds evenly, eyebrow still raised.

“Do you get why I was awful to you?” Santana implores, not waiting for a response, “Because, but for the grace of god that could have been _me_. How often had I slept with Puck? And he _never_ wrapped it up!” She shakes her head, “I was lucky, that I got on birth control so young, and that it never failed for me. Did I ever tell you about how I’ve probably only had like two conversations with my dad in my entire life?” Quinn shakes her head, and Santana swallows, and continues, “When I was ten, I got the sex talk. He wanted to take care of it instead of Mom, because he’s a doctor. It was horrible and awkward and disgusting, especially since I always just saw him as a quiet, gentle man and I suddenly knew these things about what my parents had _done_ together. And then, when I was fourteen, he told me he would provide me with birth control.” She shakes her head, “It sounds fucked up, but I think it was kind of to battle against my mother and _abuela_. He’d been distancing himself from the Catholic Church for years at that point, because some of their stances didn’t mesh with what he knew as a doctor. One of those issues was birth control. He wanted me to get it then, so I would never have to go through the embarrassment of asking for it, and he told me that being on birth control was not wrong, but was an important part of a woman’s health. That was _also_ a horrible and awkward conversation, but if it hadn’t happened—if my dad wasn’t a doctor, say, or if he stayed Catholic, I probably would have ended up pregnant, too.”

Quinn presses her lips together and nods, “I get it, I think.”

“We did it ‘cause we were _scared_ , Q,” Santana murmurs, “Brittany, too. She was on the pill, too, because her parents are crazy feminists or whatever, but I don’t know if she was entirely clear on what it did. But she knew how sex worked.” Santana paused, “But you pregnant, I think that screwed with her. Because she always thought that pregnant women should be _happy_ —because her mom certainly was, when she was pregnant with her little sister. And that you weren’t? It scared her. I think…it sounds so weird to say, but I think that’s why she decided she believed in the stork the next year. Because then she wouldn’t have to think about you being so miserable…”

“I don’t blame her,” Quinn whispers brokenly, “I was trying not to think about it, too.” Her gaze flicks back up to meet Santana’s, “In the interest of…becoming real friends, can I tell you about…my roommate?”

Santana snorts, “The clingy bitch?”

Quinn sighs and closes her eyes, “Yeah, well, turned out she had a…straight girl crush on me or whatever.” Santana’s eyes widen and she leans forward. Quinn notes the movement and rolls her eyes, gritting out, “Yeah, we…made out. A lot.”

“How was it?” Santana asks keenly.

Quinn takes a long breath, “It was…pretty hot,” she admits, “Until Stephanie ruined it.” She twists her mouth, “She…reached down and…touched herself and…I guess…came…right on top of me.”

Santana takes in the bright red flush on Quinn’s face and leans back. Her first impulse is to _curse_ herself for never making out with Quinn, because, _damn_ , that’s Finn _and_ this girl who both got so aroused kissing her that they couldn’t control themselves. Girl must be a _hell_ of a kisser. And it occurs to her that maybe this is another reason she believed Quinn was straight. How is it Quinn never made out with her or Brittany? They are _hot_ , for god’s sake. And really, what are the odds that the entire Unholy Trinity are gay (or, well, _bi_ in Brittany’s case, she guesses, but that’s not her favorite thing to think about)? Maybe that’s why it seemed too unlikely to her that Quinn could be gay.

But her second thought is more constructive, “What do you mean she ruined it?”

“I wasn’t ready for that,” Quinn hisses, looking horrified, “And plus…she was still seeing Steve at the time.” Santana’s expression changes to surprise and Quinn sighs, “Yeah. I really…need to work on the whole cheating thing, huh?”

“Yeah, seriously,” Santana snorts, “I mean, not that I’ve been an angel, but jeez, Quinn. It’s like all you do.”

Quinn rolls her eyes and shakes her head, “At least I didn’t have sex this time.”

Santana just smiles and decides not to mention that what happened between her and her roommate could very easily be considered sex. “So what happened with her and the boyfriend”

“They broke up,” Quinn reports, “But that was after I told her what we were doing had to stop. And now she’s being all queen bitch at me, like trying to make me admit I still want her. And…she’s hot, and…it felt really _good_ to kiss her, but it was a mistake.” Santana nods encouragingly, and Quinn says, “The weird thing is Steve. He was kind of completely cool with the whole thing.”

Santana laughs a little, “I think that’s like, the one big perk to being a lesbian. You can steal some guy’s girl, and he doesn’t get nearly so pissed about it because he thinks it’s hot. I mean, come on, Artie barely even scowled at me when I got Britts.”

Quinn chuckles a little and shakes her head, “I get it, I guess. I just don’t know what to do. I thought Stephanie could be a good friend.”

Santana shrugs, “She still could be. Maybe you should come out to her, too. That would fix that friendship, like yours with Rachel.”

Quinn glares, “No? Because then she would be even more convinced that I want her?”

“Whatever,” Santana inspects her nails, “I don’t get how you’ve fucked up your coming out this fucking much.”

“I’m pretty good at screwing up my life,” Quinn admits without even sounding pitiful. Just… _factual_. “That’s one thing therapy is supposed to be helping me with.”

“Therapy?” Santana asks.

“Yeah,” Quinn says, still affecting that same plain tone, “Have another of my secrets, Santana. I’ve been in therapy since the middle of Senior year. Rachel inspired me to get it. It…I haven’t been to much. I didn’t want to get too accustomed to my therapist in Lima when I knew I was leaving for Yale, so I limited my appointments, but it’s helped. And I have one on campus who isn’t bad. It’s…it does help me try to keep my life in perspective. And it’s helped me be a little more open with friends.” At Santana’s snort, she continues, “ _Except_ for with this, obviously, but come on. We actually did kind of talk about serious stuff over the summer, if you recall.”

Santana nods begrudging, but then, “Wait,” Santana starts, “You told me you only told Zizes you were gay. You haven’t even told your therapist?”

Quinn bites her lip, “Like I said, I haven’t really even gotten that much therapy. It took me three sessions to even be able to _talk_ to the one in Lima. And…as you might imagine, my family…and the accident…were kind of enough of a source of my _issues_ without even taking into account my sexuality.”

Santana nods and a thought occurs to her, “Speaking of your family, are you going to tell your mom?”

Quinn closes her eyes painfully, “No way in hell,” she mutters.

“Really?” Santana asks, “I mean, I really thought my parents would flip, but they were scarily cool about it. I mean, they’re like your mom in some ways. And she always seemed cool about me and Britts.”

Quinn laughs a little bitterly, “Yeah, well. Look. She’s not homophobic, I’ll give her that. But…back when that campaign ad ran about you, and she found out about it, yeah, she had to do some soul searching for a few days. And when she talked to me after like, radio silence for a couple days, she asked me if you and Brittany were together. I told her yes. She said…she said she doesn’t understand it, and probably never will, but her opinion doesn’t really matter because you and Brittany aren’t _her_ daughters. And she said she loves you just the same.”

Santana can’t help smiling a little, because she had no idea Mrs. Fabray had ever expressed love for her and Brittany, but her expression changes when she plays back what Quinn said and…“Oh.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Quinn utters bitterly, “It’s fine for you and Brittany, she’ll love you just the same, but for her _own_ daughter? I know it would be different.”

Santana closes her eyes briefly, “Yeah. I get that,” she whispers, “Hey, Q?” Quinn meets her eyes, “Thanks for telling me all this. You know. Trusting me.”

Quinn gives a little half-smile, “Yeah, well. What’s the point of having a gay best friend if you can’t come out to her?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Bowerbirds, “Northern Lights,” and Lykke Li, “Little Bit.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, Stephanie took things a bit further than Quinn was prepared for, things are weird  
> Steve: Stephanie's ex-boyfriend, also a Yale student


	30. Tonight we're burning all the tough times

_Tonight we’re burning all the tough times_

 

By the time she and Santana arrive back at the apartment, Rachel is just waking up.

“I was just about to call you,” she addresses Quinn, her voice pitched higher in clear anxiety, “Where were you?”

Santana smiles easily and intercepts, “Quinn was awake when I got home and we felt like going out and getting a coffee. Kinda like a throwback to Cheerios days when we’d grab an early coffee before Saturday practices.”

Quinn glances at her quickly, taking in the effortless lie, and puts a smile on. “Yeah. Sorry to worry you, Rach. I figured you’d want to sleep.”

Rachel smiles, “Thank you, I did require sleep. I’m feeling better this morning than I was yesterday!” Indeed, she looks better. More focused, healthier. And for the rest of the day, she _acts_ better. Not so inwardly focused as yesterday. She talks to Quinn a lot. Not about much substantial, and though Quinn isn’t ready to yet, she certainly never sees an opening to come out (or to talk about her roommate like she’d tried the night before, but having discussed it with Santana lessens her need to unload about that topic).

The play that evening with Santana and Kurt next to her in the audience is kind of perfect. Kurt spends much of it alternately gasping excitedly at things he likes and tutting disapprovingly at things he doesn’t; Quinn finds they agree on much in terms of the production. Santana just snorts a lot whenever something even remotely ridiculous happens. The guy playing Professor Dade (Daedalus) stumbles over a word and almost says “wang,” and Santana slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle a loud snort and proceeds to shake with suppressed laughter. Quinn glances at her, and suddenly both are suppressing laughter for a good five minutes while Kurt just glances at them incredulously from time to time.

It feels really good to laugh with Santana, even silently.

Rachel is much more engaged with the crowd after this performance, and after receiving hugs, Quinn, Santana and Kurt stand near her sort of awkwardly and watch her work the crowd alongside a few of her castmates. She throws that male lead a few awkward little smiles and glances nervously at the female lead, but the little guy playing Ike hams it up right next to her as they talk to audience members; Quinn soon discerns that most of the people they’re talking to are other students or professors, which makes sense. Before Rachel finally rejoins them, Quinn notices the small guy whispering in Rachel’s ear with a subtle gesture toward Kurt. Quinn glances at Kurt to see him smirk and smooth his hair a little.

Kurt catches her glance, “No need to be rude,” he murmurs from the side of his mouth, “Maybe he’ll remember me one day when I come to try out for a show he’s working in.”

By Sunday, her stomach is knotting somewhat at the prospect of heading back to New Haven. She and Rachel look like they’re about to enjoy a typical morning together in front of the TV until Rachel puts down the Wiimote and turns to Quinn, “Actually, I wonder if you could help me? I’m trying to decide which performances to try out for next.”

“Off-Broadway, or…?” Quinn asks.

Rachel sighs and twists her mouth a little, “I’ve been doing some off-Broadway auditions with fair regularity, but nothing has come up yet. This is just on campus.” She heads over to her little desk in the corner of the common room and shuffles in her messenger bag before producing a thin yellow folder. She brings it back, and Quinn sees it’s full of flyers about various auditions on campus.

“Now, I’m strongly considering this one,” Rachel smiles, extracting a flyer for _Amahl and the Night Visitors_. “I feel certain I have the right look to land the lead in this one.”

Quinn frowns, “Wait. Isn’t this an opera?”

Rachel looks momentarily surprised, “Yes, it is!” she exclaims excitedly, “How did you know that?”

Quinn shrugs, “I’m not sure. Just picked it up somewhere.” She glances at Rachel, “You really want to perform in an opera?”

Rachel tilts her head, “Why not?”

“Well…that’s not really…what your voice is suited for,” Quinn answers carefully.

Rachel waves a hand, “I’ve been speaking to my voice instructor and he’s agreed to give me some extra lessons to help me master the style. I mean, I know the basics. Lots of vibrato, smooth transitions between chest and head voice, exaggerated vowels in the words…”

“Okay,” Quinn acquiesces, “It just doesn’t seem like something you’d enjoy, I guess.”

“It’s college, Quinn! It’s the time to try new things!”

Quinn can’t stop the wince from passing over her features and finally just says tentatively, “But is that the reason you’re doing it? Or are you doing it because you want to get a lead role your freshman year?” When a brief scowl passes over Rachel’s features, Quinn continues, “I’m not saying this isn’t something you could do and enjoy. I’m just wondering about your motives, and whether you’re doing it because you want it, or because you want the benefits.”

At Quinn’s words, Rachel just presses her lips together and closes the folder, “Thank you for your input,” she murmurs, putting it away. Quinn winces, and is about to apologize, but Rachel merely comes back to the couch to lean against her, like always, and everything seems…alright.

It’s enough to keep her from worrying about going back to school for a little while, at least.

She arrives back on campus fairly late in the evening, having purposely killed some time in Manhattan after parting with Rachel, who had to go perform in the afternoon performance. She stands in front of the door to her room, hesitating, and turns her key noisily for several long moments before entering. With the way Stephanie has been lashing out (and Quinn _knows_ that’s what she’s doing, and she _knows_ she’s doing it because she feels rejected by Quinn, but…), she wouldn’t put it past Stephanie to still be naked in bed with Lucas when Quinn comes home.

Instead, her eyes flick up tentatively to see Stephanie sitting on her bed, legs folded under her, reading. Stephanie glances up and gives a nod.

“Hey,” Quinn says awkwardly, with a nod of her own. She begins to unpack her bags, but the silence is stifling, and she is sure she can feel Stephanie’s eyes on her. Finally, she asks begrudgingly, “How was your weekend with Lucas?”

There’s a touch of a smile in Stephanie’s voice. “We had a lot of fun! We watched movies, played board games. You should have been here, actually. He wanted to hang out with you, too. He had me invite Steve, Sean and Lulu to play games.”

Quinn glances at her uncertainly, because that doesn’t sound like the sex-marathon weekend Stephanie had been implying before she left, and wouldn’t Lucas prefer she be gone if there had been sex? “Maybe next time,” she responds neutrally.

Stephanie hums a little bit before asking in a smaller voice, “How was New York?”

“Great,” Quinn tries to enthuse, “Rachel’s play was really amazing.”

“Oh,” Stephanie says quietly, “I didn’t realize this was her play weekend.” Quinn looks a little surprised, then almost facepalms, because of course Stephanie had seen Rachel talking about the play on Facebook. She probably would have wanted to come see it; Quinn forgets that the two are acquaintances enough that this would be normal.

“Sorry I forgot to mention it,” she says, actually regretfully.

Stephanie shrugs, “It’s no big deal. I probably would have decided to stay here to try to get some of the sex that I _didn’t_ end up getting anyway,” she finishes a little bitterly.

Quinn eyes her, “You didn’t have sex with Lucas?”

Stephanie sighs heavily, “I _tried_. I did everything short of flat-out telling him to fuck me. He didn’t seem to catch any of it. Quinn, I can’t live like this. I need sex regularly or I go crazy.”

Quinn feels her face burning, “Oh. Um. I’m sorry to hear it didn’t work out.”

Stephanie just sighs again, her gaze lingering on Quinn’s body, “At least he’s fun to hang out with.” She meets Quinn’s eye for the first time in days, “Give him a chance, Quinn. He’s not much like that persona he uses in class.”

“Maybe,” Quinn concedes.

She sits on her own bed and works on homework. The silence between them is awkward, but at least it’s not stifling.

 

_I’m dancing in the limelight and still I tip over_

 

Rachel is seething a little.

Just a little.

She’s going through her yellow folder of audition flyers, and she keeps going back to that damn _Amahl and the Night Visitors_ one. The one that _Quinn_ questioned her so fiercely on.

It really doesn’t seem like such a bad thing that she wants to explore something different while she’s in college. She just performed in a very serious existential drama! She’s sure she can learn just as much from trying out opera.

It’s not a big deal, she supposes. Just some advice. Kurt had excitedly told her to go for it. Santana had looked at her with horror, asked her why in hell she would subject herself to opera, and told her to “do whatever the hell you want, Berry.”

It’s just that… _Quinn_ makes her pause.

She refuses to dwell on it, because there’s _so much else_ to dwell on.

Jeremy. The…manual intimacies they’d shared. Her confession to Santana and Kurt (which…Kurt still looks at her like she betrayed him, and now Santana is having trouble meeting her eyes, which is just…absurd). And Jeremy.

God, it was…hard to even describe just what happened when they started kissing. How little she actually enjoyed it. How the _idea_ of him was just so much more appealing than the reality.

It’s not that he was bad, despite the fact that he’d been drinking. He kissed well, he was courteous and always waited for her to consent before he touched her in different places. She found herself letting her dress fall down to her waist voluntarily, hoping she would become more aroused by his attention on her breasts and though it felt very good…physically, it was like she couldn’t connect her mind to what was happening.

She had almost gone through with it—the show must go on mentality. When she felt him pressing against her leg, she’d unzipped his pants and watched him remove them fully. He’d put a condom on immediately, but stressed as he did so that they didn’t have to do anything. She’d nodded, told him she wanted to, and with glowing eyes he’d reached down to touch her.

His eyebrows betrayed surprised as he found her…not very wet.

And he was _nice_ about it. He stressed he didn’t want to hurt her and asked how he might be able to help her get more aroused. Did she want him to finger her? Go down on her? Rachel found herself blushing and stammering and so he’d smiled, leaned back and said, “Why don’t you show me how you like to be touched?”

Feeling so stupid, Rachel hiked up her dress and rubbed herself in front of him. She watched his eyes hungrily take in the action, watched him stroke himself, and tipped her head back and thought about women.

It felt…natural to do so. Because despite fantasizing all her life about men, there was a dark corner in her mind that remained quite compartmentalized in which she kept these secrets: Rachel Berry did not watch much porn, but when she did, it was usually lesbian; when Rachel Berry had her first orgasm, she was fantasizing about kissing Olivia Wilde; when Rachel Berry made love to Finn Hudson, she would shut her eyes, and sometimes imagine girls.

And until this moment, it stayed compartmentalized. She believed her sexuality was merely a tiny bit _fluid_ , that feelings she got around girls sometimes were “girl-crushes,” that her enjoyment of lesbian porn was just the way the female body was wired—she’d read that study that showed evidence women could get aroused by any porn. It was what was in her _heart_ that mattered and that? She believed that would always be men.

But somehow, this moment became pivotal. The _way_ she decided not to look at an aroused Jeremy pleasuring himself, choosing instead to think about women, well…that gave her pause.

Maybe they were a bigger part of her erotic imagination than she thought.

Because it wasn’t as though she _didn’t_ fantasize about men. She did, usually heavily romanticized fantasies that ended with slow, impassioned lovemaking, often with the boy she was currently interested in (so frequently, Finn). She had enough fantasies about loving men and being _loved_ by men that her fantasies about women flew under the radar, And she had enough _feelings_ about men and so few about any individual women that she really _didn’t_ have cause to think about sex with women in any specific way very often. But there was something about this…

She began to breathe heavily, but in panic, not arousal. Jeremy gave a little groan of approval. Rachel sat up a little more and stared at him for a moment, very nearly telling him to just…to just get it over with, but…

“I’m really sorry,” she said quietly, “I’m not sure I’m ready to be…fully intimate with you. I thought I was, but…”

“Hey,” Jeremy had said, somehow cool and coherent despite drinking and despite his aroused flush and glassy eyes, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I just want to do what you’re comfortable with.”

She’d puffed out a breath and asked in a small voice, “Can I touch you?”

And she had. And she’d…really enjoyed the way he’d responded to her touch, had enjoyed watching his face. And when he came, she felt a swell of emotion—pride, affection, elation. And desire, for him to kiss her, hold her, love her. A rush of all the feelings she had felt were missing when they started the encounter.

He did kiss her and hold her for several long moments while he fully regained his energy and then offered to touch her, and she let him, despite not being very aroused, telling him, “I don’t always come, it’s okay…”

To which he responded, “Yes, that’s okay if you don’t, but we can at least try together, right?” And Rachel tipped back her head and imagined a handsome man—like Jeremy—who picked her up and held her and brought her flowers and smelled nice, and took her to bed and gently caressed her, slowly made love to her, but as the fantasy progressed…he became a beautiful woman who watched her from between her legs as she licked and kissed, whose breasts Rachel would cup as their hips bucked together. And as the fantasy oscillated wildly between the two images, at this moment, it was the woman who made her wetter and wetter.

She ended up having to guide his hand herself, while her hips bucked erratically at his fingers, but she came with a soft cry, stifling herself, mindful of how full the apartment was. He’d kissed her again, told her how beautiful she was, and passed out not long after.

Rachel lay awake for awhile, waiting for the dull pulse of alcohol to leave her system, wishing she were not in some stranger’s bed with her castmate. And worrying about her erotic imagination.

But as she pondered, she actually began to calm, because it had been _different_ with Finn. When he kissed her, she melted. When he held her, she smiled. And when they made love, she was usually so focused on _him_ and wanting him to feel good that she didn’t even need to worry about how aroused she was—she would get there because she just loved him so much. And the times she thought about girls? Those were generally the times she was exhausted, and not very into it, but wanted to please him, so she thought about the kinds of things that would _get her there_.

She thinks that’s the difference. She doesn’t love Jeremy, and, well, she’s never really _had_ a boy get her off with just his hands before. So she needed _more_ of that erotic energy thinking about girls sometimes gave her to get there with him.

Which…yes. That can mesh with what she knows about herself, and can now admit to herself. She _loves_ men, but…women arouse her sometimes.

And what made it worse was probably the fact that she left before Jeremy even woke up, because of how badly she wanted to get home.

That night, when she left Quinn doing her homework in the lobby of the theater and began walking back to the dressing rooms, she found Jeremy waiting for her. And she could see right away the distance in his eyes.

“Hey,” he’d said tentatively, “You okay?”

And she sighed, met his eyes briefly and smiled, “I’m okay.”

“I was worried about you,” he prompted, “when I woke up and you were gone. Gretchen said she let you out around 6:00.”

“Does she ever sleep?” Rachel joked weakly, because, indeed, Gretchen had been sitting at a chair in her dining room alcove with a book when Rachel woke up, seeming completely unperturbed by the people sleeping all over her furniture and floor around her.

Jeremy had smiled fleetingly, “Not really, no.”

A few moments of silence, and finally Rachel said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Jeremy shrugged, “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re safe. It’s so stupid that I didn’t have your number in my phone. I could have sworn I had it.”

Rachel nodded a bit, “I did enjoy last night,” she said quietly, “And it was not a mistake, I want you to know that. But I just…don’t know if I want to do it again.”

His lips twisted and he nodded, “Okay. I…okay.”

“It’s not you,” she winced as she began the cliché, “You’re a wonderful lover, Jeremy. You’re courteous and kind and invested in my pleasure. But I think I need to step back a bit. Maybe _date_ someone for awhile before I jump into bed with them.”

He laughed a bit hollowly, “I get it.”

“We’re friends, right?” she implored.

“Of course, short stop,” he answered weakly, “Hey, you’d better go get ready. We have a show to do!”

Rachel’d felt numb and empty the entire time she got ready.

If she’s honest, she _still_ feels that way a bit.

She’d had no idea how terrifying the power of breaking someone’s heart could be.

 

_The future was our skin and now we don’t dream anymore_

 

It’s to that weird point where…they really are just so comfortable with each other. They’ve fallen into their routines. She knows when Kurt is going to take his shower. She knows when to expect them home. She knows when Rachel is going to start getting ready for bed. She knows when she’ll have the common room to herself, so she can have discrete Skype sex with Brittany, listening hard all the while for either of her roommates getting up to use the bathroom.

They’re like…some sort of weird family sometimes. She never imagined she’d be so close to these two, that they would actually all confide in each other, and spend time together. On those uncommon evenings in which they’re all home, they watch _Buffy_ together and order food, and it’s _nice_ and kind of perfect.

One night, the week before Hell Week, Rachel is in bed early, and she and Kurt—back from a morning work shift—sit on the couch together, trying to decide what to watch, “Okay, so, there isn’t much more _Bad Girls Club_ that I could find, so, maybe we should start something else?” Kurt suggests.

“I’ve got it,” Santana grabs the Wiimote. Kurt squeaks slightly, but lets her have it. “I got into this while your asses were in Lima for Christmas. Shit’s crazy and I don’t want to watch it alone.”

“ _Twin Peaks_?” Kurt asks skeptically, “Am I really going to want to watch this?”

“Chill, it has nothing to do with tits.”

“Ooh, it’s that guy from _Desperate Housewives_.”

“What? Oh my god. Whatever. Sure.”

“Wasn’t he on _Sex and the City_ , too?”

“How should I know? Can I actually start the episode or are you still staring at the cover photo?”

“Oh, sure, right. Go ahead.”

Even though she watched it not too long ago, Santana is on the edge of her seat with anxiety. She knows there’s going to be a body, wrapped in plastic, on the beach. She knows she’s going to have to watch Laura Palmer’s parents weep and something about it all is exciting and makes her emotional.

Kurt, on the other hand, seems to turn green as soon as the plastic is removed from the girl’s face. And by the time the girl is on the morgue table, Kurt is reaching for the Wiimote and pausing. “What the hell are you making me watch?”

“…A murder mystery?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, Santana, I can’t. I just don’t deal well with the thought of dead teenagers.”

Santana twists her mouth guiltily, now recalling just how Kurt handled Karofsky’s suicide attempt, and even though the circumstances behind Karofsky and the fictional Laura Palmer are not remotely similar… “Okay. I get it. Sorry.”

He smiles a little, “It’s okay. Let’s just…find something lighter to watch?”

About two weeks later finds Santana and Rachel on the couch together. Kurt had retired early, despite Santana’s eyes pleading with him to stay (she just can’t shake the _weird_ feeling she gets around Rachel now, and she’s even started sleeping in tank tops because… _god_ it’s all so strange). Rachel seems relaxed and smiles languidly at Santana, “So what do you and Kurt do when you stay up late together? I have energy tonight.”

Santana smiles a little bit. Since her play finished up, Rachel has been trying out for other productions, but in the meantime, she has been apologetic about not hanging out with Kurt and Santana much and has been almost overly eager to spend time together. Santana shrugs and says, “There’s this show I started watched when you guys were away for Christmas. Kurt won’t watch it with me, but maybe you will?”

“Oh, I would certainly give it a chance!” Rachel smiles.

And it seems to go okay. Rachel is horrified and at one point about halfway through the Pilot tells Santana she’s not sure she can continue to watch it, because of how dark it is, and Santana responds with, “Rachel. You watch _The X-Files_ with Quinn all the damn time. Don’t tell me this is too ‘creepy’ for you.”

Rachel twists her mouth a bit, “Well, yes, but _The X-Files_ deals with the nature of the unexplained or the mysterious and that is something that is fascinating to me. But this is a real murder.”

“It’s not real,” Santana scoffs, “It’s no realer than _West Side Story_ and geez, half the cast was dead on the stage at the end of that show.” It’s a major exaggeration, but she hopes it proves her point. “Give it a chance. It’s campy as fuck sometimes, too.”

Rachel smiles and does end up watching one more episode with Santana before excusing herself to get some sleep, but she admits, “I liked it. It’s not as bad as I thought.”

But when Santana tries to get her to watch it with her on her other nights off that week, Rachel always has an excuse. After the third rejection, Santana decides Rachel was just being polite, and doesn’t actually like the show.

For whatever reason, she doesn’t want to watch it alone. Maybe because it’s a murder mystery and she wants someone to kick around ideas with. To try to solve the mystery first. But one afternoon, when Rachel and Kurt are both working, Santana tries to come up with someone who would actually watch this with her and comes up with _Puck_. Maybe because the show is dark, or whatever, and Puck’s always kind of gotten her.

It actually doesn’t take too many texts to convince him to get on a Google hangout, queue up Netflix and watch the show with her. Santana watches the Pilot with him (for the fourth time, dammit) and the next episode before Puck apologizes and says he has to get some sleep before his early shift. “This is cool, though,” he admits, “Just let me know when you wanna watch again.”

“Sure,” Santana nods, and they disconnect. Even though they barely spoke through the episodes, and any time she glanced at Puck his expression looked glazed and exhausted, there had been something _nice_ about watching the show with him.

The next time, they talk only a little bit more. Santana tells Puck he looks terrible (he does; dark circles under his eyes, a few days’ worth of stubble on his face), he cracks a grin and tells her he smells even worse. He asks her, crudely, if there’s any hot pussy up there in New York, she rolls her eyes and tells him yes, but none that would touch him. They don’t talk too much about the show, except to both express appreciation for Shelly Johnson (Puck also gets a boner for Audrey Horne, or at least he _says_ he does, it’s not like he shows it to Santana).

By the fourth time they’re watching the show together—and finishing off the first season—there finally comes a moment in which, between episodes, Santana hears Puck take a deep breath. She looks at him, curious, to find him still staring at his television screen, but then he murmurs, “Santana…I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life.”

She tries to inhale, but it’s suddenly difficult, and she flicks her eyes away from her computer and back up to her screen, where the opening credits for the next episode are playing. “Yeah. I really, really don’t either,” she answers lowly.

They’re silent throughout the season finale.

 

_Lucy’s underground, she’s never coming back_

 

Stephanie seems like she’s done trying to torture Quinn with Lucas, which is good. But for whatever reason, Lucas is also hanging around them a lot more now.

It sucks, because everyone else seems to like him. Quinn quickly ascertains why: Lucas plays Starcraft, too, although he has upgraded to Starcraft II and has been playfully fighting with everyone else to get them to play it. But just that basis seems to be enough to win over Steve and Sean. Even Lulu seems to enjoy his company.

He _does_ seem awfully interested in Quinn, though. He tries his best to include her in all the conversations, turning to her with dark eyes and asking, “What do _you_ think, Quinn?” She would fight not to roll her eyes and keep her answers relatively brief.

Toward the end of the week, Lucas joins them for dinner again, and his phone buzzes halfway through the meal. He extracts it, reads it, smiles goofily and types a reply. When he looks up and notices the attention on him, he just shakes his head. “Sorry. My boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Stephanie blurts.

Lucas chuckles, “You didn’t know? Yeah. I’m a homo.”

His eyes dart to Quinn just as she opens her mouth and…she almost takes the opportunity. She almost just says, “Me too,” and lets whatever fallout there is come, but she stops when his eyes meet hers, and clamps her mouth shut.

But from the way his eyes linger, she’s positive he knows.

Regardless, it’s a good way to vet her friends’ responses.

As she suspects, Lulu just smiles; she’d had a feeling from some of the things said in the Feminism seminar that Lulu is an ally. Steve…he might be a _little_ quieter for the rest of dinner, but really, he’s been like that a lot lately. Sean is absolutely no different to Lucas than before the admission.

Only Stephanie seems to need some time to process it, but Quinn suspects that has more to do with her trying to _seduce_ this gay guy than anything else.

And all of that, combined with the conversation she had with Rob where _he_ made clear his status as an ally…Quinn feels like maybe she could do this. Maybe she could actually come out at school.

And then early the next week, someone finally makes the obvious joke.

“The names around here are pretty ridiculous,” Lucas begins, in the same tone of voice he uses for beginning one of his trivial anecdotes in class, “Like, Steve and Stephanie? And _Sean_? Come on. Not to mention, Lucas and Lulu.”

“And Lucy,” Stephanie cuts in.

Quinn feels herself blushing.

“What?” asks Sean, puzzled.

“Lucy. It’s Quinn real name,” Stephanie gazes around at them, bewildered, “You guys didn’t know that?”

“It’s…really not my real name,” Quinn begins.

Stephanie faces her, and her expression is guilty and…Quinn knows, now, that this wasn’t one of Stephanie games. “But it is, though. When I got the paperwork saying you were going to be my roommate, that’s the name it gave me. But when you contacted me first and signed your emails with Quinn, I figured you preferred your middle name.”

“I do, yeah,” Quinn started, “And…there really isn’t a Lucy here. I’m not Lucy. It’s just Quinn.”

“Oh, I get it,” Lucas says, “It just doesn’t feel like you, right? Because you’ve always gone by Quinn?”

Quinn went with it, “Sure. The name really doesn’t fit me, anyway.” Because it’s easier than trying to explain the broken, sad, ugly, unhappy little girl that she buried. The girl that doesn’t _exist_ anymore. There’s no way she can tell them that it doesn’t even feel like Lucy is in her _head_ anymore because…that just sounds crazy. But there’s no other way to feel about how completely she is Quinn. There is only Quinn in her head. A Quinn who likes books, and doesn’t care about being popular and is gay, like Lucy.

But Lucy is gone.

“Well, still,” Lucas tries, “Lucy and Lucas. Just another thing we have in common, right Quinn?”

His eyes are twinkling when Quinn meets them apprehensively.

Oh, he knows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from The Presets, “This Boy’s In Love,” Psapp, “Always In My Head,” The Tallest Man On Earth, “Love Is All,” and Phantogram, “When I’m Small.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, Stephanie took things a bit further than Quinn was prepared for, things are weird  
> Steve: Stephanie's ex-boyfriend, also a Yale student  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, Quinn's friend  
> Lulu: Quinn's Yale friend, they take the Feminism seminar together  
> Rob: In Quinn's circle of friends, Stephanie's advisor at the radio station, liberal  
> Lucas: Classmate of Quinn's, irritates Quinn because he sucks up, Stephanie is attracted to him and wants to seduce him  
> Jeremy: Male lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hook up at Gretchen's party  
> Gretchen: Female lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hash out their misconceptions of each other and land on mutual respect, if not quite like


	31. Now that I know what I want, see, I think that it haunts me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: rape is discussed in this chapter.

_Now that I know what I want, see, I think that it haunts me_

 

Ideally, she knows, she doesn’t _want_ this, but…really, what’s ideal about this situation?

She hasn’t seen Brittany in over a month. And somehow Brittany seems busier than ever—figuring things out for Regionals, hanging out with Blaine and Tina and a bunch of other people a lot.

Even the Skype sex isn’t enough, when they can only have it once in awhile; a night that Santana is off and Brittany isn’t busy or doesn’t have to go to sleep early because of Cheerios practice in the morning.

So Santana consoles herself with the fact that this is coming from a place of desperation, and _not_ because she doesn’t love Brittany anymore. Because she does. She’s sure she _always_ will.

But she’s a woman with _needs_. Needs Brittany says she can get met elsewhere if she has to. And she has to.

And maybe…yeah. Maybe it has something to do with Quinn. And Rachel. And hearing about Quinn being _gay_ now and making out with her roommate and how _good_ that apparently was and… _Rachel_. If Kurt is right, she needs to make sure Rachel realizes there can’t be anything between them. And what better way to communicate that than hooking up with someone else?

And okay. Maybe the realization that Brittany was _right_ and Rachel and Quinn _were_ potential options for her makes them seem like…temptations. She’s sure she really never thought about them until presented with their queerness and now it’s like… _Rachel’s across the room topless_ or _Quinn kissed a girl until she came_ and…

How is she supposed to just ignore those kinds of thoughts when she hasn’t gotten laid in what feels like forever?

It’s the end of her shift and she’s rolling her neck and shoulders to loosen them. She is almost positive Angela works this morning and she kind of wanders away from Helen and the grocery section a little early to try to find her. And tries to shake off her inexplicable jitters.

Because, _come on_ , she was like the hottest bitch at McKinley. Asking this girl out should be no big deal.

She puts on her smirk and the little swagger in her step. She can see Angela rifling through a few papers next to the home improvement aisle, frowning. She’s alone, which should help.

Santana remembers the way all the boys at McKinley practically fell on their knees before her as she approaches.

Angela glances up, then actually lifts her head and smiles as Santana approaches. “Hey!” she greets, “How’s it going?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Santana purrs.

Angela’s face changes. It’s no longer open and friendly but…maybe intrigued. “Yeah?” she asks, giving Santana her full attention.

“Yeah, well, here’s the thing, Blondie,” Santana begins bluntly, “I’m hot, you’re hot. We’re both, like, the two hottest women in this store. So what I don’t get is why we haven’t done anything about it yet.”

Now Angela looks flat-out amused, which…well, it nettles Santana a bit. “Oh?” Angela queries, “And what would you like to do about it?”

“What’re you doing Friday night?” Santana asks. She happens to have off, and she knows Angela doesn’t work Saturdays or Sundays; the lucky bitches on her team in the store get Monday through Friday schedules.

“I…suppose I’m free,” Angela answers, still smirking.

“Good. You, me, dinner. And maybe you can earn a little something something if all goes well.”

Angela presses her lips together as if trying not to laugh. Santana huffs. This isn’t fair. “I’m down,” Angela eventually responds with a shrug.

“Good,” Santana nods, then has Angela put her phone number into her phone. She more or less commands Angela to figure out where they’re going to go for their date and saunters away, hearing Angela chuckling behind her.

Goddamnit, they’re not supposed to _laugh_ when she seduces them.

 

_Well we scheme and we scheme but we always blow it_

 

Angela texts Santana the next day telling her to meet at a specific subway station on Friday. Santana texts back “this better be good” and gets a “hahaha” in response. Which…she still doesn’t get why Angela finds this so funny.

She gets off the train and stands next to a beam, arms folded, trying to look fierce in her leather jacket. Angela approaches her with a smile, and Santana nods jerkily, keeping her expression sharp.

“Hey,” Angela greets, smiling warmly. Her hands are shoved into her coat pockets.

“Hey,” Santana responds stiffly. Angela smiles again, then jerks her gaze toward the stairs. As they walk toward them, the hand closest to Santana drops out of Angela’s pocket and flexes. Santana’s pinky curls, but it just feels weird. The pinkies are just a her and Brittany thing…and the thought of holding hands with someone else is bizarre. Maybe Angela feels that way too.

She follows Angela mostly in silence, just exchange a few smiles, until they reach their destination. “Here we are,” Angela grins, ushering Santana inside.

Santana glances around, noting how small and warm the place is, and as they’re seated at a little two-person table, she asks, “What is this place?”

Angela shrugs, “Vegetarian restaurant. Seemed a safe bet for a lesbian first date, right?”

She can’t hold back her sharp laugh, “Stereotype much? I eat meat.”

Angela rolls her eyes, “Well, maybe if you didn’t play all _cryptic_ and make _me_ choose where we went, I might have picked somewhere else. Suck it up, woman.”

Santana closes her mouth and immediately smirks. Okay. So they play the same dating game. She can do this.

“The fuck is seitan?” she gripes as they review the menu.

The food is surprisingly good, but then, she _has_ been living with Rachel Berry, so certainly that’s fucked up her palette some. And the conversation goes okay. Angela is a part-time student (she complains that it’s going to take her forever to finish her degree at her pace of nine credits a semester), but she’s getting a History degree because she actually wants to teach History someday. Santana just snorts, “Okay, I can’t even pretend to find that interesting.”

“Your worst subject?” Angela guesses with a knowing look.

“Nah, I did fine in History, I just really wasn’t that interested.”

“What are your career goals?” Angela asks.

Santana sighs, “Really? Can this conversation be less sexy? I don’t know. I just know I like being in front of an audience and being in charge. Performing. Being a star.”

Angela nods, “Well, it’s a hard business to break in to, but you’re in the right place for that. One of them anyway.”

Angela is then candid about the fact that she broke up with her last girlfriend a couple months ago and at this point, Santana isn’t sure what to say, and the awkward subject weighs on her tongue.

By the time they’re ordering dessert, it’s Angela who leans forward and says, “Look, Santana, I like you. You’re hot and funny. And, I mean, I wake up early all week so this is getting late for me, but if you’d like to join me back at my apartment for a bit to hang out, I wouldn’t object.”

 _Jackpot_ , Santana thinks, but the subject weighing on her finally bursts out, “I have a girlfriend.”

Angela straightens and leans back immediately, “Excuse me?”

“I’m in an open relationship,” Santana amends, “But I have a girlfriend. Long distance, still back in my hometown. I…just wanted to get that out of the way so, you…you know I’m not looking for a girlfriend. I’m looking for like…casual. Friends with benefits.”

Angela sighs heavily, “And you couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?”

“Like when?” Santana shoots back, “Like when I asked you out? ‘Hey, what are you doing Friday, bt-dubs I have a girlfriend?’”

A reluctant snort. Then Angela sighs, “I get it. Look, give me some time. I’m not saying I want this, but I’m not saying I don’t either. I just need to think about it and you and I will need to talk about what this means for us.”

It doesn’t make sense to feel guilty, but she does. She nods, “Okay. Whatever. As for what it means, just like I said. Friends with benefits.”

Angela nods back, “Right, sure.” She sounds unconvinced. Their desserts are placed in front of them, and they finish them quietly. Angela pays, shaking her head gently when Santana guiltily tries to contribute (she _had_ expected Angela to pay, until she started to feel bad). Santana follows her back to the subway station and they get on the same train, sitting next to each other.

The weird thing is that it isn’t completely awkward. Angela’s clearly thinking, but she’s not shying away from Santana, either. Her demeanor isn’t cold. And when she gets off earlier than Santana she waves and smiles a bit and says, “See you Monday?”

Which would be fine, she’d be looking forward to that, if it weren’t for Saturday night.

She gets there and goes to punch in, grinning at Helen as she does so, but Helen doesn’t seem to see her. At first, Santana figures she’s got something on her mind, and as they’re sent to do separate tasks, she doesn’t exactly get much of a chance to ask her.

But when it’s time for their break, Santana heads toward the exit where she and Helen meet up to head to Starbucks, but as she gets close, she’s sees Helen leaving the building already. She picks up her pace, rushing to grab her coat out of her locker, but by the time she gets outside, Helen has already gone.

Okay. Maybe she didn’t even know Santana was here.

She _could_ drive herself to Starbucks, she supposes, but it’s really not the same without Helen. So she waits, eating her lunch within view of the exit. Helen doesn’t come back in until break ends and, again doesn’t seem to see Santana at all.

“Am I a fucking ghost?” Santana calls after her, a little petulantly. Helen doesn’t turn.

By second break, Santana gets in her face right in front of the time clock, “Okay. What’s the deal? You’ve been ignoring me all night.”

Helen stares stony-faced for a moment, then glances around, “You really want to do this here?” she gestures at the cluster of about half their coworkers, all clocking out next to them.

“Whatever,” Santana raises a dismissive hand, “Yeah, hit me. What’s your problem?”

“Well,” Helen begins sarcastically, “My _problem_ is that I thought we were friends, but it turns out you’re not honest with me.”

“How so?” Santana challenges.

“Look, I talk to Angela, okay? We’ve hung out outside work a few times, we text sometimes. So I know you went on a date with her.” At this, the murmurs around them start. “And that’s _fine_. I don’t care who you date. But when she called me wringing her hands because you have a long-distance _girlfriend_ , I didn’t know what the hell to do. Because _I_ had told her you didn’t, and had given you _every_ opportunity to open up to me about whether or not you did.”

“You never _asked_. I never _lied_ to you.”

“You lied by omission, and I know why,” Helen retorts. Santana just folds her arms and raises a challenging eyebrow, “You never told me you had a girlfriend because you were keeping me in reserve.”

“Ex _cuse_ me?”

“I’ve seen this god knows how many times,” Helen snarls, “Girl leaves home, leaves behind another girl, but scopes out her options in the new place, _just in case_ it doesn’t work out with the girl back home, she’s got a spare in the wings. She grooms the spare with flirty jokes, keeps her at arm’s length, never letting on that she’s waiting to see if her relationship _dies_. But what you don’t get is that I would never have _been_ that spare for you. I’m not into you, Santana. Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t date teenagers.”

Santana’s mouth is hanging open, and the murmurs cease as Helen storms away. Santana glares at all the onlookers, who drop their eyes to the floor as she, too, stalks away to eat alone.

Because, fuck. She doesn’t know if Helen is right or not. All she knows is that it _sounds_ true and she just…doesn’t know how to be friends with other lesbians.

It kind of hits her then that, in spite of all the progress she made with Rachel and Quinn and Kurt, she barely knows how to be friends with other _people_.

 

_Take our hands out of control_

 

The Feminism, Race, Gender and Sexuality freshmen seminar is fast becoming her favorite class. Even moreso than her Theater survey course, which is interesting, but she’s really looking forward to _doing_ theater. With the seminar, she loves how much debate and discussion there is.

It’s also probably the most she’s heard Lulu speak, which she also enjoys, because it gives her more to talk about with Lulu. They usually exit the class talking about the day’s subject matter and…yeah, she’s really happy to have someone around who _doesn’t_ scoff at feminism.

There’s one day, however, that throws her a little. Somewhere in the class discussion, one of her classmates—one of those students that like Lucas seems to love the sound of her own voice—manages to steer to topic of discussion to some recent rape cases near where she grew up, in which alcohol apparently played a huge role.

“Well, that’s a touchy subject,” the professor starts tentatively, “But in general, the law does say that after a certain point of intoxication, one can’t legally give consent to sexual activity. The problem is, of course, that people do have completely consensual sex while legally intoxicated, so many cases turn into he-said, she-said kind of scenario, where the presence or absence of feelings of violation of, usually, the woman afterwards determine the scale of the crime.”

Quinn feels as though her professor’s words begin to gradually get further away, and it isn’t until Lulu nudges her and mutters, “Are you okay, Quinn?” that she realizes that she’s shaking.

She swallows, “I’m fine,” she murmurs.

But her mind is churning, and she can barely chat with Lulu as they leave the classroom. Lulu seems to recognize that Quinn needs some quiet and doesn’t say anything; they just walk together in silence.

A few hours later, she has a free block of time and she grabs her phone and talks a walk on campus until she feels suitably alone.

She calls Puck, who picks up groggily on the fourth ring, “Hello?” he slurs.

“Are you drunk?” Quinn spits in disgust.

“Quinn?” he asks, then clears his throat and seems to sound more alert, “Nah, just napping. Sup?”

“Oh, not much,” Quinn answers with false cheer, “Just checking up with you to see how many women have you gotten drunk and forced yourself on lately.”

“What?” Puck asks, alarm in his voice, “Q—”

“ _No_ ,” Quinn snaps, “Listen to me. Getting me drunk to have sex with _fucked_ up, Puck. I said no!”

“Hey, just listen a minute, Q,” Puck pleads.

“Don’t talk to me anymore,” Quinn snarls, hanging up on him. He tries to call back, but she rejects the call. He doesn’t try again.

She thought, for some reason, that telling him off would feel good somehow. That it would be therapeutic. But it’s not, she’s still seething and frustrated and _confused_.

After dinner, she pulls Lulu aside and asks if she’d take a walk. She catches Stephanie’s questioning gaze (and Lucas’s knowing one, which kind of makes her want to punch him), but ignores her as Lulu agrees that a walk sounds nice. They pull on their coats and step out into the frigid early February night. Quinn realizes she forgot her hat, but she can’t dwell on it much.

They walk in silence for almost five minutes—excruciating, as they shiver, trying to get used to the cold—until Lulu finally asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Quinn knows Lulu must know there _is_ an “it,” judging by Quinn’s behavior in class, but she doesn’t even know where to begin, so she takes a breath, “I wanted to talk about class today.”

Lulu nods, silently, until the pause stretches long enough that she says, “You looked upset.”

Quinn nods again and then says, “Look, I…I got pregnant at sixteen.” She doesn’t look directly at Lulu, but she can see the shock pass over her face before she manages to mask her expression, “I couldn’t…I couldn’t get _rid_ of her. That kind of choice wasn’t one I could go through with—I still wouldn’t, I don’t think, but back then I was pro-life. I hadn’t thought it through, really. I mean, obviously I’m pro-choice now, even though I still don’t think I could have an, an abortion.” Quinn takes a breath. “And…I got pregnant because I lost my virginity to my boyfriend at the time’s best friend.” Lulu’s eyebrow rise again, and Quinn shakes her head, “I lost so much because of that mistake. My parents kicked me out. I lost my position on the cheerleading squad. When my boyfriend found out, I lost him. And the thing was, I always thought I deserved it, because I’d done such a horrible thing—having sex with someone I wasn’t in love with, not to mention cheating. And I couldn’t take it out on her. So I gave birth to the most beautiful baby girl in the world and I gave her up for adoption.”

“That must have been really difficult,” Lulu says after a long pause, wincing as she says it, but Quinn finds it comforting, to hear that kind of validation.

“Yeah,” she nods, “And like…I always took so much responsibility for it in my heart that…I never thought much about _how_ it happened, until today. That guy…that _stupid_ guy I slept with…okay, I always blamed him for not using reliable protection—he did _not_ pull out in time, and he was supposed to be in charge of that. But in class today, it all came rushing back. How we were kissing, and when he pressed to move onward, I stopped him, and he responded by handing me a wine cooler and encouraging me to drink it. I didn’t, but I had already had some to drink. I don’t really remember being all that drunk, but the fact is, we drank and had sex and that’s why I got knocked up.”

“I’m so sorry, Quinn,” Lulu says compassionately, “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

Quinn shrugs kind of pitifully, “So I called him today and told him off for doing that to me, but the strange thing is, I don’t feel any better. I thought I would.”

Lulu seems to be thinking, “Is this the first time you’ve really gotten mad at him?”

Quinn snorts, “God, no. I’ve yelled at him for being an idiot a million times.”

“I mean, for this, though,” Lulu clarified, “You said before you pretty much blamed yourself.”

“I guess so, yeah. I tried to blame him early on, but could never stop blaming myself.”

Lulu nods, “So you finally confronted him for violating you. What did he say?”

Quinn frowns, “I maybe didn’t use quite those words. I just told him what he did was really messed up and didn’t really let him speak.”

“So…today, when you got upset, it was because you were thinking about the way he went about it, rather than how you felt about it?” Lulu asks.

Twisting her mouth, Quinn nods, “I guess so. It’s his actions he can control, right?”

“Yeah. But how do you feel about it? Is this the first time you’ve really felt violated by what he did?”

“I…guess, yeah. Because I’d never had the perspective to let me see that he did something really wrong.”

Lulu nods, slowly, and finally asks, “So you feel now like he really violated you, like he obtained your consent in a way where you don’t feel you could give it?”

Quinn tries to think about it. She knows she had been a bit buzzed at the time. She had gone through about two wine coolers in about an hour—though, Puck had been sharing them—so she can remember feeling a bit strange and light-headed, but…she also knew what she was doing. She could remember thinking about the reasons why she wanted to say yes and…

“I…don’t know,” she finally admits.

“I’m not trying to make you decide one way or another what happened to you,” Lulu says quickly, “I just know that, it’s a really shady area. People can make a really bad decision together and both _regret_ it, and no one can necessarily be violated in the process, because regret isn’t the same thing, or someone can violate another person, who doesn’t realize it until later. However you feel, I accept that’s what happened to you, and I’ll support you. But it sounds like a really confusing scenario that you could use a chance to think about or talk over.”

Quinn nods. She had been considering bringing this up with her therapist, but she didn’t have a session until Thursday, and at that moment, she’d felt like she couldn’t wait to talk to someone else. She wants to ask Lulu more, to ask what it means that she thinks she _did_ consent, that perhaps she told everyone that she was drunk for so long that she started to believe it, when Lulu’s phone jangles in her pocket. She sighs, extracts it, and answers. It’s clear from her tone that it’s her boyfriend.

“I’ve got to go,” she says regretfully a minute later, “I’m so sorry. If you need to talk more, I’ll always be happy to, okay?”

“Okay,” Quinn smiles, “Thank you so much, Lulu. And I think it goes without saying…don’t tell anyone?”

“Of course not,” she promises, reaching out to impulsively hug Quinn, who holds her back for a moment. Lulu rushes back to Quinn’s dorm to get her bag, left up in Quinn and Stephanie’s room, but Quinn wanders, taking a more meandering route back, thinking.

 

_Drunk and driven by a devil’s hunger_

 

The next day, she calls Rachel.

It’s hard to just launch into her thoughts and what she’s worrying about, so instead, she asks, “How did you forgive Puck for sleeping with Shelby?”

Rachel seems surprised by the question, but not unpleasantly so. Her voice is open as she replies, “Well, it was very confusing for me, because Puck had once been interested in me, somewhat. I mean, barely, all things considered. It mostly served to solidify our friendship.”

Quinn nods as she takes it in, then says, “Okay, so it was confusing, but…what did you think when it happened?”

Rachel sighs, “I wondered, why did it have to be _my_ mother, of all people? It _did_ bother me for a time until I realized it wasn’t about me at all. It was about Beth.”

“Right,” Quinn murmurs, her heart rate picking up as it always did when Beth was mentioned, “And you were able to forgive him just like that? I mean, I remember when I told you, you didn’t even seem mad at him.”

“Well, to be honest, when you told me, I was more worried about _you_ , and Beth, to even think too much about Puck and Shelby. And when I did take the time to think on it…it took some thought, and sorting out my feelings,” Rachel says thoughtfully, “Because, yes, I did find it distasteful that he would pursue me _and_ my mother within a few years of each other. But then I remembered how he would, the rumors said, frequently sleep with people’s mothers while working on their pools. And then I wrestled with the fact that I found it off-putting that she was his teacher…and then I remembered my crush on Mr. Schue.” Quinn represses a snort when Rachel reminds her of this. “And then when I reminded myself that he had a lot of regrets and painful feelings about Beth, well…of course I could see why he would fantasize about making things work with Shelby. He wants to be Beth’s family.”

Quinn could empathize with that, she realizes. The reason that _she_ had despised Shelby had been due to the same feelings Puck wrestled with, except that to be Beth’s family, Shelby was in _her_ way.

“Why do you ask?” Rachel finally queries tentatively.

Quinn sighs, “I just…I’m trying to figure out whether I’m mad at him, about the sex he and I had. I had a conversation the other day that brought up a bunch of confused feelings about it, and…I guess I just need a bit of perspective.”

“Well, he was a teenage boy,” Rachel replies rationally, “And while I don’t consider that an excuse for truly bad behavior, I do think it warrants some leeway for bad judgment. And his hoping he could have unprotected—I assume—sex with you without consequences is, I think, a matter of bad judgment rather than malice. Besides, deep down, he has a good heart. You know the whole reason he started his pool cleaning business?”

“To help with his grandmother’s medical expenses while she was still alive because they were becoming too much for his mother to afford. I know.”

“Right,” Rachel smiles, “He’s a good guy who made a lot of mistakes. So did we all, at that age.”

And that, Quinn thinks, is not entirely the point of her current ruminations. She knows that people with good hearts can do terrible things, but…maybe it gives her more insight on the kinds of intentions Puck probably had.

It is something to consider, anyway.

 

_I was made to believe there’s something wrong with me_

 

After sleeping on it, the next afternoon she finds a quiet expanse of snowy campus and calls Puck again.

He answers, his voice incredibly tentative, and the first thing Quinn says to him is, “Beth is not a rape baby.”

“Okay,” he replies, his voice still soft, uncertain.

“I still think what happened was shady, Puckerman, and could have been really messed up, but the fact is, I had my reasons for going through with the mistake we made together. I consented. You didn’t violate me.”

“Okay,” he repeats.

“But what you do to girls to seduce them? That has got to stop.”

“I know,” he answers softly.

“Because one day you’re going to have sex with a drunk girl who feels really violated about it,” she continues doggedly.

“I know,” he murmurs again.

“I felt angry, I blamed you, but the truth was, I had my reasons to consent. Yeah, you helped to talk me into it, but in the end, it was my decision.”

“Quinn…believe me, I know.”

“What does that even mean?” she snaps, “I’m telling you about myself, you can’t possibly know what I was thinking at the time.”

“No, I don’t, but…I know what I did was messed up, okay? I realized it back in the fall.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Quinn says sarcastically, “That’s why you continued to pass out alcohol to all the women you know.”

“Will you listen to me instead of just being a bitch for once?” Puck cuts in, “Okay, first of all, that doesn’t count, because I wasn’t trying to sleep with any of those women. Hell, Quinn, I’ve barely slept with anyone in half a year and if you’d let me talk, you’d know why.”

Quinn seethes, then, “Fine.”

“Okay,” he starts tentatively, “It happened way, way back in the fall. Almost everybody was gone, so I was hanging out with Artie when he had some free time. And we’d, ya know, listen to music and play games and it was a good time.”

“Uh huh,” Quinn grunts impatiently.

“But like, this one day this song came on and it was about date rape and about how this guy got this girl so drunk that he could have sex with her even though she didn’t want to and…I dunno, listening to it, I got really scared and uncomfortable. So I left Artie’s, and he didn’t get why I left all of a sudden or why I didn’t come back for awhile.”

Quinn bites back to urge to call him a jerk for walking away from Artie for no good reason, but she resists.

“I couldn’t make sense of it. I’d heard of date rape, sure, but I thought the girl had to be unconscious or something but in the song, she wasn’t, and it made me scared. I mean, I want to get my dick wet but I don’t want to hurt anybody to do it, you know?”

“Right…” Quinn drawls in revulsion. Puck doesn’t seem to notice.

“So I called Kurt, ‘cause he’s kinda like a boy and a girl.”

“Are you kidding me?” Quinn growls.

“What?” he shoots back, annoyed, “Will you stop jumping on my dick every five seconds?”

“Believe me, I have no desire to do _that_ ever again,” she snarls, “But are you serious? Just because he’s gay, you’re gonna call him a girl.”

“He calls _himself_ a girl sometimes,” Puck protests, “And I don’t mean it like a bad thing or whatever. I just mean, he’s a dude, so he knows what it’s like to think with the wrong head, but he also sleeps with dudes, so he knows what it’s like to like…be open to a guy. Like girls have to be.”

Quinn sighs a little, because it does kind of make sense. Puck takes that as a cue to continue.

“I talked to him about how I was scared that I’d date raped you and some other girls, because I gave you all alcohol. I just never knew it might not be okay. I figured people drank like I did—to help them get the courage to do things they actually wanted to do but were scared to start up.”

Quinn snorts, but it’s not derisive this time, “ _You_? You’re scared to have sex with women?”

“Well, hell no, not to have sex. I’m scared of being rejected, and if I was drunk, it sucked less.”

“Sure,” Quinn shrugs.

“Anyway, Kurt was actually a big help. He told me that unless girls told me that I had hurt them, that I probably hadn’t. And that you—and you were my biggest fear—always seemed to take partial responsibility for the sex and what happened, so he doubted you felt violated. And that I should probably just fuck sober for awhile, just to be safe, and I’d kinda already been thinking that, because I didn’t ever want to force a girl to do something she didn’t want. Like, I have a sister. I wouldn’t want a guy to do that to her.”

“I get it,” Quinn answers, “And while normally I’m not sure I’d be happy about Kurt speaking for me about this, he’s kinda right.”

“Yeah, I thought he was,” Puck says easily, “But then why did you call me all pissed off a couple days ago?”

Quinn sighs and rubs at her face. She’s barely noticed how cold it is as she’s been listening to Puck, but her face is numb. Still, she stays where she is, just pacing a bit, as she says, “In one of my classes. The professor brought up how at a certain level of intoxication, people can’t legally consent to sex.” Puck’s quiet, so she continues, “And I had a moment where I wondered if, maybe, that night, I might not have been able to consent and it made me very scared and angry. The thing is, though, I never knew that this was even a possibility. No one taught us about this stuff.”

“Yeah,” Puck agrees softly, “I mean, I knew getting girls drunk meant they would be more likely to say yes, but I figured that’s because they wanted to anyway.”

“Hmm,” Quinn grunts. Because even though what Puck’s saying is rife with unintentional victim-blaming mentality…Quinn thinks he was right about her.

It was around the time that Rachel Berry appeared on her radar in a very big way, when Finn had joined the Glee club. She had panicked, feeling Finn slip away from her, toward Glee club, and _Rachel_. How the _thought_ of Rachel filled her with rage and panic and…she remembers how she had stared at herself in the mirror, imagining Lucy’s body was returning (because _why else_ would Finn be pursuing someone else?) and…had invited Puck over.

It had been on purpose. Nobody invited Noah Puckerman over to _study_. But she had the house to herself, and Puck had brought the wine coolers she’d requested when he asked what she wanted him to bring (“girly drinks,” he’d snorted, but really she just wanted something her parents _didn’t_ drink).

Her intention had been to just make out with him for awhile. When he’d asked what kind of drinks she’d wanted, she’d decided drinking to make the idea of cheating on her boyfriend more bearable was a fabulous idea. Because underlying the panic of losing Finn was the feeling that she would be _relieved_ to lose him, because she wouldn’t have to _kiss_ him anymore, and _what did that mean that she didn’t even want to kiss her boyfriend_? Puck had game, Santana claimed. If anyone could make her enjoy kissing, if anyone could transform her from some sort of frigid ice sculpture into an _actual human being_ , it would be him.

But everything got sort of muddled. The tipsier she got, the less she could get Lucy and _Rachel_ out of her mind. She felt bloated and disgusting and thinking about Rachel and Finn filled her with a kind of fury and _jealousy_ that just confused her. And when Puck asked to go further, she remembers consenting. She knows she did. She just couldn’t remember why, for the longest time. And the sex, that whole miserable, painful, stupid experience…

She remembers why, now. Because she had been trying to _prove_ something to herself. That she could have sex with a man. _Enjoying_ it hadn’t even really been the point; as far as she knew, women weren’t supposed to enjoy sex. But if she could do it…if she could go through with sex with a man, maybe she wasn’t hopeless after all.

She hadn’t been drunk. It had just been easier to tell herself that she was, to put the responsibility all on Puck. And she’d consented. They’d talked it over, he’d reassured her, and they’d done it. He just had screwed up the dismount, so to speak.

Finally, she says, “You’re right. I think that is what it was like for me.”

Puck lets out a breath, “I’m really glad you don’t think I hurt you on purpose. I honestly didn’t know that it could be wrong to give chicks booze. I am sorry you’ve always regretted it, though.”

“I don’t really,” Quinn answers, “Because it brought us Beth. And if it hadn’t been you, it would’ve been someone else. I was looking for something, Puck. You helped me find it.”

“I…did?” he asks, bewildered.

“Yeah. I was looking for the reasons why I felt so _off_. So strange. And being with you helped me figure it out even if I didn’t even _think_ about it for years afterwards.”

“…okay…” Puck murmurs in confusion.

“Dammit, Puck, I’m trying to tell you I’m gay,” Quinn chokes out, her voice breaking, “I had sex with you because I was sad, and feeling fat, and wondering why I didn’t like kissing Finn. I had sex with you because I was trying to prove to myself that I _could_. That I could be with men. But it wasn’t something I ever cared to repeat.”

“…you’re gay?” Puck repeats.

“Yes,” she hisses, annoyed by the fact that he doesn’t seem to be keeping up.

“Shit,” Puck mutters, “That’s wild.”

Quinn rolls her eyes, “Oh, shut up. And don’t you dare ever tell me I’m both a man and a woman because of it. And keep your mouth shut, because almost no one knows.” She’s smiling a little, though, in spite of her words, and she knows it’s reflected in her tone.

“Alright,” Puck replies, still sounding a little dazed, “Hey Quinn?”

“Yeah?”

“Even if the sex we had really had nothing to do with me…I’m glad we made Beth together.”

“Yeah,” Quinn responds quietly, “Me, too. I’m glad it was you, Puck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from She & Him, “Sweet Darlin’,” Modest Mouse, “Dashboard,” Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “Gold Lion,” Delta Rae, “Bottom of the River,” and Janelle Monae, “Cold War.”
> 
> Because I can already see this is going to be controversial, let me clarify a point. What happens in this chapter may not be based on how I feel about Quinn and Puck having sex, but it *is* based on how I think Quinn, in canon, actually feels about it.
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Helen: Santana's sarcastic gay coworker friend, Santana feels weird about their friendship occasionally  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, Stephanie took things a bit further than Quinn was prepared for, things were weird, but improving  
> Lulu: Quinn's Yale friend, lives in town, they take the Feminism seminar together  
> Lucas: Gay classmate of Quinn's, irritates Quinn because he sucks up, seems to sense Quinn is gay  
> Angela: Santana's gay coworker that works during the day, knows Helen, seems to be into Santana


	32. Put your hand in my hand and we'll stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’ve addressed a lot of the concerns some reviewers (mostly on ff.net) had about the last chapter here: prettylittlepoutymouth.tumblr.com/post/51252355880 . I just want to reassure readers that I’m aware of the cultural forces at work in the story, and the fact that they’re there is the point. These people don’t live in an ideal world and they’re certainly not perfect, but I’m trying to give them the truest interpretations I can.
> 
> This update discusses Klaine sex.

_Put your hand in my hand and we’ll stand_

 

It’s only just begun, but it’s already exciting, in a stressful way.

He’d started posting flyers within a week after Mr. Schue told him there was funding for a play and musical and held tryouts for the musical two weeks later, and callbacks the last week in January (on his birthday, actually; he figured since he couldn’t do much celebrating in the middle of the week, he’d do something else he enjoyed). He felt the musical would be harder to cast, and didn’t want to get his potential casts confused, so he wanted to finish casting that before starting play tryouts, which would begin the next week.

And since he’d had little overseeing—Coach Beiste and Mrs. Schuester both seemed rather surprised he was willing to take on two productions and were willing to let him do what he thought was best—he was able to choose two shows he was particularly interested in.

Artie chose _Guys and Dolls_ for the musical because, well, _original_ gambling gangsters speak to him, as does the revival all-black cast. Plus zoot suits, if he can get the costumes. Besides, it contains an original New Directions song choice.

And for his play, he chose _A Streetcar Named Desire_. Mostly because of the small cast (there had been a few other contenders, but realizing the dearth of talent in general at McKinley, he’d chosen a small cast play so that he would actually be able to put on both), but it isn’t just the size. He feels it’ll be a nice challenge, to try to put on a play with the simultaneous subtlety and overt sexuality in a high school setting.

You know. Might look good for his credentials.

Callbacks pass and…well, things are looking more difficult. He’d thought he had a good idea of who he wanted for each part, but now that he’s looking at voice parts and trying to match people into roles they could actually _sing_ , well…

Then there is what to do with Wade, who though she had tried out for Adelaide, had offered that she might be willing to play a male role because she doesn’t know if she’ll be fully out as trans to the rest of the school by then, so Artie is now torn between wanting to respect Wade’s gender and wanting to fit her into a role that could _work_ , a role that she won’t abandon because she’s not ready to live as female. Because he’s not sure he wants his Adelaide using falsetto, which, while Wade is certainly a powerhouse with a high tenor range, many of Adelaide’s notes would put her in her falsetto range and…he just doesn’t prefer that kind of sound.

So it turns out he starts holding play tryouts while his musical casting is still incomplete. Which is frustrating, because he spends the weekend celebrating his birthday with a lot of the New Directions, and since most of them tried out, they keep asking him whether they made it, and…yeah. He doesn’t know how else to tell them that he _doesn’t_ _know_ yet.

As he expected, he sees a lot of the same faces at the play tryout, although…he hadn’t _quite_ expected it to be _all_ the same faces. He had hoped that the play would draw out some people who weren’t into singing and dancing but liked acting. It seemed, however, that the same small group of students were the only ones really interested in both. And the most talented were in the Glee club. Some of the band kids tried out, but most knew they would be in the orchestra pit for the musical and didn’t bother, so…

And Blaine, who had tried out for Sky Masterson and now Stanley Kowalski.

Artie feels his own eyebrows rising as Blaine reads the monologue. Blaine is pretty good. For such a smiling nice guy, he’s really channeling some rage and aggression as he reads the part, but…it’s _Blaine_.

Afterwards, Artie folds his hands and regards Blaine, “I can’t help but notice you’ve tried out for both leads.”

Blaine smiles a little, “Well, yeah. They’re both parts that speak to me. Sky is a total romantic, and, well, I do love _Streetcar_ , and since I can’t be Blanche…” he laughs, then sobers, “But really, I’m a big Brando fan. I’ve watched both of the films repeatedly—and mostly _Streetcar_. I feel very confident about the role.”

“But _both_ roles? Could you possibly learn both?”

Blaine shrugs uneasily, “Sure. I mean, I’m familiar enough.”

“Right,” Artie sighs, “Thank you, Blaine. Please come to callbacks.”

But as tryouts go on, it’s clear that…there really isn’t anyone else who really has the right _feel_ that Blaine has, but…he’s _Blaine_. Would anyone believe he was capable of the things Stanley does? But at the same time, the fact that it _is_ Blaine gives Stanley that little bit of vulnerability that is crucial…

And then Annette shows up.

She smiles slightly. She’s one of the last to try out. “I don’t really sing,” she admits, “but I thought I could try out for the play. I think I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” Artie says, swallowing, “Yeah, sure. Show me what you’ve got.”

Annette is…not bad. He thinks. It’s hard to be sure when he’s mostly just watching her greedily. She tries out for Blanche, and he finds himself thinking, _well, Blanche is written as a blonde, but that doesn’t have to be true, does it?_

She gets a callback, of course, and leaves feeling very relieved, but Artie really can barely remember her tryout.

Callbacks help with some of his uncertainty, and afterwards he begins putting together his cast lists with more confidence. He does his best to pair a smaller role in one production with a bigger one in the next (since his casts overlap so much), and it starts to come together pretty well.

One snag is definitely Annette. Once she got to callbacks, and read lines opposite Sam, another Stanley contender, it’s clear that she isn’t _terrific_. Not bad, but she doesn’t have the nuance that Blanche requires, but…

Artie ends up writing her in as Stella without much of a second thought.

For Blanche, shockingly, the two biggest contenders are Brittany and Sugar. He had honestly been pleasantly surprised at their performances at tryouts and callbacks. He had also been considering both for Adelaide, and it’s hard, because he _kind of_ does want Wade for Adelaide, but…he gives it to Brittany, because she’s the better dancer, and, shaking his head, still surprised, gives Sugar the role of Blanche. She’s just histrionic enough to make it work.

After callbacks, he talks to Blaine privately and asks, “Look, is this about your career? I mean, I get it. The only reason I’m doing both the play and the musical is to prove myself. If you want the lead roles because you want to prove yourself to prospective dramatic arts schools, maybe I can do that for you.”

Blaine frowns, “I think the only proving I want to do is to myself. My applications are already in. I haven’t heard anything yet. And while, yes, this would be good to share during interviews or auditions, don’t just give me the roles to help my career. I’ll be responsible for my own career.”

Artie nods; it’s a fair answer. Which is how Blaine gets Stanley, but not Sky. Artie gives him Nathan Detroit instead—a secondary lead.

Sky and Sarah are easy after that—Sam and Tina had both blown him away, both individually and with their chemistry, and seemed fine with smaller roles in _Streetcar_ (though, he had been considering Tina for Stella…but Sam gets Mitch). And then…Wade becomes Nicely-Nicely—which will give her a chance to show off her range. And then Rory is Bennie and Joe is Rusty; they’ll sound great all together on _Fugue for Tinhorns_ …and Adam has a rich enough voice to handle Arvide…

Everyone seems pretty happy about their roles when he posts the cast lists the next day. The only person who seems to be putting on a brave face is Wade. Artie goes to check on her.

“I get it,” Wade says glumly, “I mean, I’m a sophomore. It’s a seniority thing, I know that much. And I also get why you wanted a ciswoman to be Adelaide…Brittany’s voice has gotten a lot better.”

“Adelaide’s allowed to be a little pitchy and nasal,” Artie says a bit dismissively, “She would have been a waste of your vocal talents, honestly. I know you wanted Sarah but you would be almost entirely falsetto…”

“Yeah,” Wade admits, a little bitterly, “That’s true. And I get that so much falsetto isn’t the best to listen to. I’m not really like Kurt. I’m not quite countertenor. And I know you never have enough guys for these sorts of things and since I’m still _trying_ with the coming out to the whole school thing… ‘Sit Down’ is a really great solo, too. I know I should be happier.”

“Just let me know if I can do anything,” Artie says awkwardly, and as he rolls away, he decides it.

Somehow, he’s going to turn Nicely-Nicely Johnson into a _female_ gangster.

 

_I’m on your side when nobody is, ‘cause nobody is_

 

Now that she’s come out to Puck—someone who she’s almost always liked, despite their conflicts, even if she’s rarely respected him—it’s starting to feel easier. There’s even a part of her that’s starting to think it might be okay to tell Rachel because, well, now that she thinks about it, it’s pretty unlikely that Rachel would ask the same line of questions Santana did that helped _her_ figure out that Quinn has feelings for Rachel. Rachel would most likely hug and accept her and, just _being_ on the phone with Rachel earlier in the week, talking about Puck, made her realize how much she missed the rare times where they could be pretty candid with each other (even if Quinn _was_ always hiding her feelings, sometimes even from herself).

She is supposed to go down to visit Rachel the following weekend, but now, this weekend, she’s just spending time with her friends. Her tenuous peace with Stephanie seems to be holding, and even though Lucas frequently smiles at her like they share a secret, she feels less like punching him in the face these days. They spend Saturday playing weird board games that Quinn has never heard of, but it turns out she likes. Her favorite is an old game that Lucas owns called _Dune_ , and since they have six people (Lulu hasn’t managed to take some time away from her boyfriend, but Steve appears to be feeling social and Rob is over, too), they have the perfect number for a full game. It’s some kind of war strategy game where they’re moving troops all over the map to try to collect some kind of currency called Spice (Quinn suppresses giggles because she can’t help but think about the Spice Girls) and there’s treachery and betrayal and strategy and, really, it feels like everything Sue Sylvester has prepared her for.

Sunday, though, is kind of a disappointment because it’s a big homework day.  And also because Stephanie is being rather short with her. The third time Stephanie asks for her opinion and then mutters, “I don’t know why I ask you anything,” Quinn has had enough and takes the book she’s trying to read and leaves.

She knocks on Sean and Steve’s door. Sean answers, his eyebrows raised in his only expression of intrigue, and when Quinn walks in and realizes Sean is playing Playstation, she tosses her book aside and says, “What’re we playing?”

“ _Grand Theft Auto_ ,” Sean answers, warily, and catching Quinn’s face, just passes the controller over, “I’m supposed to be…” but he trails off and lets Quinn pick up the controls. Soon, she’s causing traffic accidents, hijacking cars, and punching hookers in the face.

“Where’s Steve?” she finally asks.

Sean just shrugs, “Library, maybe?”

Quinn suppresses a snort because, yeah, it’s not often Steve seems to care about his schoolwork.

“Sorry to take over,” Quinn finally says awhile later, “Stephanie was being a bitch.”

Sean nods, “Yeah, I think she said she has to be the first person to present her class presentation in one of her classes. I think she’s really nervous about it.”

“Yeah,” Quinn grumbles, “So she takes it out on me.”

“What happened between you two?” Sean asks tentatively a few moments later.

Quinn sighs, because…she doesn’t feel like she can really tell. It’s not just _her_ secret. So she takes a different approach, “It’s because…I’m gay.”

Sean just stares at her for a few moments, “You are?”

“Yeah,” Quinn says, “And she’s not homophobic or anything, but I haven’t told her. I think she’s figured it out, though, and is mad that I haven’t told her. I don’t know.”

“Wow,” Sean finally says, “I never would have guessed that. And, you know. It’s cool. I don’t have a problem with it.” They’re silent for a few more minutes, until Sean quietly states, “I have to admit I really don’t have much experience with this. There was Lucas a couple weeks ago, and now you. And honestly, Quinn, I don’t think I’ve met anybody gay before now, or at least not out. I’m from middle of nowhere West Virginia. It’s not the most tolerant area. But I’m glad, at least, that I figured out before coming to college that this stuff isn’t something that hurts anybody. That it’s okay to be gay, you know? I’m on your side.”

“Thanks, Sean,” she answers, oddly touched. Lima felt enough like the middle of nowhere to her, she can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Sean or, God forbid, any gay kids at his school. She hesitates, then says, “You’re the first person here I’ve told.”

He stares at her a bit, “Really?”

A smile, “Yeah. Because I’m not ready for everyone to know and I know you won’t tell anyone else.”

He nods soberly, but doesn’t say anything else about it, instead just points to the screen and says, “Head down that street. Trust me,” he adds preemptively, sensing she’s about to argue.

She hands back the controller soon afterwards and reads until Sean decides to get back to work on his homework. Then she hugs him, briefly, and heads back downstairs, both smugly triumphant that she told him before she actually told Lucas, and feeling more and more certain about telling Rachel.

 

_Oh, my sweet fairy, our hearts did us wrong_

 

It’s finally happening, after a few delays. And, as a happy coincidence, it’s going to double as a celebration for landing some lead roles in the play and musical.

The gay bar seems like the appropriate place to do that, after all.

Blaine is freshly showered, shaven, and is gelling his hair into place, towel around his waist. He’s singing _Luck be a Lady_ to himself, refusing, as he does so, to begrudge Sam for landing the role of Sky; he’s thrilled that he got Nathan _and_ Stanley, because he just wants to enjoy the high school stage as much as possible. He’s excited: he, Karofsky, Unique, Brittany and Tina are all going. Merry knew she wouldn’t be able to sneak in, and they’d invited Sam and Sugar to come share in the celebration, but Sam, seeming actually disappointed, said he had to work, and Sugar declined, saying she had plans to spend the evening on a _Sex and the City_ marathon, and besides, she didn’t like going places where the men were prettier than her.

Mid-gel, his phone rings, and he smiles to see it’s Kurt. They call when they can, usually twice a week or so, even if it’s just to say a quick hello. And, if he recalls correctly, Kurt is off today, so he’s bound to be in a good mood.

“Hey, love,” Blaine answers, trying in vain to continue combing his hair, but holding the phone up to his ear just gets in the way.

“Hey, honey,” Kurt answers, and his voice is breathier than normal.

“Enjoying your day off?” he asks, smiling, picturing Kurt in those pajamas with the lapels, maybe sprawled out on his bed…

“I’m about to,” Kurt replies, a hint of mischief in his voice, “Because you know what hearing your voice does to me…”

“…Oh,” Blaine replies stupidly, suppressing a wild desire to laugh. It’s not that it’s _funny_ that his horny boyfriend has called, it’s that…they haven’t had a chance to do this is awhile because of how hard Kurt has been working, and how frequently, and…this is _not_ a good night…

“Yes, that ‘oh,’ really does it for me,” Kurt says sarcastically, but it’s with an amused edge. Blaine can hear rustling, like maybe Kurt is writhing on his bed a bit.

Blaine weighs his options. He needs to leave to pick up Unique in ten minutes, which isn’t a _ton_ of time, but hell, they’ve finished quicker. And… _fuck_ , just imagining what Kurt might be doing to himself _is_ making him _react_ , and hey, it doesn’t really matter if he’s a little late, does it?

But then he’d have to re-style his hair, which would surely get mussed, and he’d be tired, and just…it just doesn’t feel like the right time, much as Kurt and his own body might like it to be.

“I’m thinking about kissing you,” Kurt murmurs, “and the way your body feels against mine, the way you start getting excited so quickly.”

Blaine groans. “Kurt, I’m so, so sorry. I don’t think I can tonight. I’ve got plans with Unique and Dave, remember?”

A moment of silence, then an irritated puff of air from Kurt, “Oh. Right. I guess I just thought…since we haven’t in so long.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, okay?”

“Okay,” Kurt agrees begrudgingly, “I’m not off again for another six days, maybe then?”

“Of course,” Blaine agrees, “And I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to go, I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Kurt answers, his tone only a little clipped. They say goodbye and hang up, and Blaine puts the finishing touches on his hair and, ignoring his body, forces himself into one of his favorite pairs of navy slacks. He pauses, considering his appearance, then takes a picture of himself shirtless, and sends it to Kurt, with the message “for inspiration.”

Kurt will notice the _evidence_ of their conversation, pressed against the front of his slacks.

He completes the ensemble with a button-up and a sweater vest, checks his hair again, and hurries out of the house to his car to go pick up Unique.

On the way there, he gets a text message from Kurt.

**Kurtsy: Thank you, sexy.**

 

It gives him something to smile about when he finally checks his phone in Unique’s driveway.

Unique, it transpires, is ready for him, because he’s halfway to the door when Unique emerges, smiling shyly. She’s wearing a form-fitting, shimmering silvery dress that stops just below the knees, with long sleeves and a black belt, a small black purse over her shoulder. She completes the look with a short, choppy-haired black wig, a pair of dangly earrings, a black necklace and black heels. She makes sure Blaine sees it before pulling on a pea coat.

Blaine nods approvingly, his eyebrows raised, “Well, you definitely look incredible,” he says, offering his arm, “I feel underdressed.”

“Unique always likes to make an entrance,” Unique answers primly.

“No doubt, it reminds me of your Nationals look a bit, and you certainly made an entrance there.”

Unique smiles a bit, “It’s time Lima really sees me. I’m ready, or nearly there.”

“This will be good practice,” Blaine reassures as he guides her to sit in the front seat, closing the door for her, “A safe space, before you have to deal with high school,” he continues once he’s in the car with her.

She shudders slightly at the mention of high school, and Blaine begins to drive them off to the gay bar.

When they get there, they see Brittany and Tina, both wearing short skirts, wedges and long sleeves, huddled in jackets, (Brittany in bright colors, mainly purple, Tina in dark, mainly blue). Brittany is a surprisingly punctual person, but then, all the Cheerios are. As they get out of the car and Brittany and Tina are absolutely squealing over Unique’s outfit, Blaine sees Karofsky pulling up. It feels like a good sign that they all arrive on time and he feels validated in his decision to not get off with Kurt before leaving.

Although, the fact that he didn’t seems to be making his body just feel wired, charged. On edge.

Karofsky _so_ isn’t his type, but he has to admit he looks good. When Karofsky had told him that he was planning to just wear a t-shirt and jeans, Blaine had reacted incredulously. Especially since Karofsky admitted that was supposed to be meeting a date here—a guy who lived about forty miles away who he’d been talking to for a month or two. He figured having Blaine and the others around could be a good safety net if the guy turned out to be someone he wasn’t into. But with those things in mind, clearly, Karofsky had tried a bit because, while he is wearing a pair of black jeans, he also has on a v-neck t-shirt that looks new and a simple sport coat underneath his old letterman.

“T-shirt and jeans, huh?” Blaine asks with a smile as he shakes Karofsky’s hand in greeting.

Karofsky looks down at himself uncertainly, “Is it okay? I thought…”

“It’s fine. Absolutely,” Blaine reassures him, “I mean, I’m wearing basically what I wear everyday anyway. What’s comfortable is more important.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tina mutters, gesturing toward the three women, particularly their shoes.

“I’m more comfortable this way,” Unique retorts, but without any malice. Tina just grins at her.

They approach the entrance and, as before, the bouncer scrutinizes their fake IDs, rolls his eyes a little and shrugs, letting them inside. As before, Blaine hopes that they might make an entrance, being young, well-dressed and attractive, but the bar is mainly older men whose heads don’t even turn, busy as they are talking to each other and nursing drinks.

“Where’s your guy?” he murmurs to Karofsky, who is scanning the room as they follow the girls to their chosen table.

“There,” Karofsky murmurs back, pointing discretely to a corner table where a man sits staring at his phone, his leg jiggling nervously. He’s lean and tan, with full, dark hair that is graying slightly at the temples. Blaine stops and grabs Karofsky’s arm.

“Dave, how old is this guy?”

Karofsky eyes dart away, “Twenty-nine? I think?”

Blaine glances at the man skeptically, “He’s _graying_. He’s lied to you about his age, no doubt about that.”

Karofsky frowns darkly, “Hey, some people gray early. It’s not a big deal.”

“But if he _has_ lied, that puts him more than ten years your senior.”

“Yeah, I’m aware he’s older,” Karofsky says coldly, “Maybe I like that.”

Blaine is gnawing on his lip. Honestly, the whole thing makes his stomach churn unpleasantly, but he breathes in and pushes away the urge to judge the whole situation. “I just want you to be careful,” he finally says, “Because not all older guys who are interested in…in legal teenagers are trustworthy. So, just, be on your guard, okay?”

“Right. Okay,” Karofsky responds uncertainly.

“I’ll be by to check in on you,” Blaine promises, “so let the guy know you’re here with friends, alright? And that you’ll be _leaving with them_?”

A sigh. “Yeah. I will.”

“Good.” Blaine pats his shoulder, and Karofsky straightens his spine and approaches the man, still fiddling with his phone.

Blaine keeps an eye on them while he follows the ladies to the table they’ve picked out and hangs his military pea coat on a chair. Karofsky’s date smiles hugely and pockets his phone, getting out of his chair to hug and kiss Karofsky’s cheek in greeting. Karofsky is smiling and seems excited to see him, and they sit together at the table. Karofsky gestures over to Blaine’s table and Blaine looks away as the older man turns his head to look.

Brittany is asking what everyone would like to drink and Blaine asks for a cosmopolitan without much thought. He’s trying not to watch Karofsky now, although he’s feeling oddly protective. So he discusses Regionals briefly with Tina and Unique; both are interested in having a solo but don’t seem to care about much else at this point, though Blaine is beginning to worry, because they really only have a few weeks, and Mr. Schue seems just as unable to plan for it as he was for Sectionals.

When Brittany comes back with drinks, she begins to ask Tina something, and Blaine tunes out their conversation before long. He glances at Karofsky and his date, who seem to be happily conversing over their drinks and making flirtatious eyes at each other over the table. He also looks around to see who else might be here. It’s mostly bearish guys in jeans his father’s age, a small cluster of drag queens sitting together who occasionally get up to prowl the room, a couple of presumably straight twenty-something girls who can’t stop giggling, and a very androgynous college-aged person who appears bored. He then notices, with a jolt, a guy who appears to be his own age, dark-skinned and handsome, and has the fleeting thought of _what would be the harm in talking to this guy?_ when another young guy, broad-shouldered and brunette, hands him a drink and sits across from him, and they smile familiarly and affectionately at each other.

With a mental sigh, he tunes back into the conversation at the table, which seems to be heading toward dancing. Brittany is eager to start dancing and seems to be trying to convince Tina and Unique to come with her. Blaine glances uncertainly around. No one else is dancing, perhaps because it is still pretty early and not even that crowded yet, and he shares Unique’s reluctance to be the first one out there. Which is…unusual for him. He loves to be the center of attention, but something about his restlessness makes him _not_ in the mood to dance.

They sit awkwardly for awhile, finishing their drinks in a dancing stalemate. As Tina gets up to get them another round, Karofsky comes over, his date next to him. The date smiles a huge, used car salesman smile and says enthusiastically, “I just wanted to say hi to Dave’s friends. It means a lot to me that you’d come here with him so we could have a chance to meet!”

Blaine wants to say that he thinks it’s completely tacky to meet an underaged guy in a gay bar, but reigns in his attitude (it had been Karofsky’s choice to meet here, and it’s not as though there were many other discrete places they could go). He can’t explain why he just doesn’t _like_ this guy, who is now shaking hands with all of them, introducing himself as Henry or Harry or Harvey or something. He suppresses a scowl when Karofsky and Hervry join them and listens idly as everyone around him talks. Blaine keeps quiet, scanning the room, sipping his drink as quickly as possible.

When he finishes his second cosmopolitan, he sets the drink down with the force of finality and says, “Alright, who’s up for dancing?” standing and reaching for Unique’s hands. Brittany springs up, immediately eager, Tina grins uncertainly at Unique, who appears hesitant. “Come on,” Blaine urges, “It’s high time to show you off, gorgeous lady.”

The flattery seems to work, for Unique rises, all swaying hips and elegant legs. Blaine glances at Karofsky, whose date is asking him if he likes to dance. Karofsky shrugs and Blaine is pretty sure he’s lying when he says he’s okay at dancing but doesn’t like it much, and Hervry seems relieved to stay at the table.

Soon, they’re dancing, in a group, switching partners around, the four of them laughing and enjoying themselves immensely. People watch them without much interest—Blaine keeps his eye mostly on that attractive young couple, who are too engrossed in each other to spare a glance, which is really a shame, because the black one has a gorgeous mouth and the white one has big, expressive eyes…

After several songs, the bar is beginning to fill up a little more, and more people seem willing to dance. A few of the drag queens are out first, lip synching and laughing together, then come some skinny college boys who must’ve come in later, since Blaine didn’t notice them before, twisting and rolling their hips in tight jeans and button-ups. A few people eye him, but when they notice he’s there with a group of girls, they don’t intrude; Blaine doubts they think he’s straight, but they might think that the women would intrude.

But after a few more songs and a few breaks to go back to their table a suck down some more drinks, Brittany is dancing with the drag queens, who seem to love her instantly, and Tina is laughing and dancing with the skinny college guys, and Blaine is trying to encourage Unique to approach some people. He thinks about suggesting the drag queens, but then remember what had happened before when he suggested she might share similarities with them, and instead tries to steer her toward the college boys Tina is dancing with.

When they approach them, Tina flings an arm around Blaine and shrieks, “This is my friend Blaine! And this is Unique! Isn’t she gorgeous?!”

“Totally!” responds the nearest guy with a grin, who gives Blaine a lascivious once over before saying to Unique, “So pleased to meet you! Tina here tells us she has a boyfriend, and that the cute blonde over there,” (he jerks a thumb at Brittany) “is eating muff these days, which is really a shame, because we brought our fag stag with us tonight and there’s hardly any girl flesh for him to salivate over, you know?”

“Such a pity,” Unique laughs, “Must be what it’s like to be you in the real world.”

“Oh, honey,” the guy simpers exaggeratedly, “There’s _plenty_ for me to drool over in the real world, even if I can’t touch most of it.” He winks roguishly at Blaine and gestures for Unique to say hello to their straight friend, who is wearing hipster glasses, a t-shirt and jeans almost as tight as his gay friends’. Unique casts Blaine an almost panicked look, but he just smiles encouragingly and urges her to approach the straight guy, who smiles happily in greeting and takes her hand. Soon, they’re twisting together and talking and laughing.

A few songs and another round later, at Brittany’s beckoning, Tina begins to drift over to dance with the drag queens, or, well, mostly with Brittany, really. The drag queens coo and howl delightedly at the way they move together, grinding subtly, looping their arms around each other and twirling. They’re laughing, but Blaine finds it oddly pornographic. He watches as Unique dances gracefully with the stag hag and smiles as he realizes a few of the college boys are drifting closer to him. They’re definitely good-looking. He would definitely…if he were single…

He heads over and taps Tina on the shoulder. She turns out of Brittany’s arms with a grin, “Hey!” she hugs him as if she’d forgotten he was there.

“Hey,” he smiles back, “Look, I’m gonna run to the bathroom, keep an eye on Unique, won’t you?”

“Sure, sure!” Tina slurs a bit, smiling. It’s at this point that Blaine realizes they’re going to have to stop drinking, because he doesn’t think he can stay here much longer, but they have to be safe to drive home… _why_ did they take so many cars? It had always been Kurt that thought about designated drivers, and Blaine suddenly feels very irresponsible and childish.

In the bathroom, he uses a stall for the sake of his hair-trigger libido all night; he can just _see_ himself getting hard just because someone uses an adjacent urinal or something. He stays in there for a few minutes, cock in hand, trying to decide if he should just rub one out so he can concentrate. On, on _anything_. In the end, he tries to imagine what Kurt would say if he ever found out that Blaine beat off in the bathroom of Scandals and decides it isn’t worth Kurt’s certain disgust, so he zips himself back up and exits the stall.

Against his better judgment, he ends up washing his face at the same time as he washes his hands, hoping the cool water will clear his head. He remembers he used to have so much _fun_ when he was drunk, but…maybe the constant anxiety in his belly about Karofsky’s date, or guilt about being around so many good-looking guys, it’s just not a good night for him. When he’s drying his face, he hears the door open behind him.

When he looks in the mirror, he sees Sebastian Smythe.

“You’ve been in here such a long time, I thought I’d check on you,” Sebastian says smoothly, “Since your friends are so busy dancing that I don’t think they’ve even noticed.”

“What are you even doing here?” Blaine asks brusquely.

“I’m here with friends,” he answers, “They’re on a date, so I’ve stayed out of the way, but I was their ticket in, so they’ll be repaying me well,” he smirks. Blaine thinks of the hot interracial couple he saw and remembers how they looked about his age and it clicks.

“Right,” he folds his arms, “So you still come here, huh?”

“Honestly, I’m surprised you don’t, what with your ex-boyfriend gone and McKinley completely devoid of anyone attractive. I mean, do they even know how to dress at your school? At least the Dalton uniforms are flattering.”

Blaine scowls as the first part of what passed through Sebastian’s very shapely mouth registers, “You’re mistaken, Kurt and I very much still together.”

Eyes widening, Sebastian places a hand against his chest in feigned surprise, “I’m so very sorry, I just assumed that there’s no way you two were serious enough to weather that kind of distance. I mean. New York is a big place, and the men are numerous and incredible.” He chuckles humorlessly, “Guys like us are common as condoms there.”

Still scowling, Blaine answers stiffly, “I’m still the one he wants and he respects me too much to have some kind of meaningless sex with someone else, no matter how much we might miss each other.”

“Mmm, yes, he’s like that, isn’t he? Very high strung about things like honor and fidelity. I imagine it keeps you in line pretty well, knowing the way he’ll shriek if you step out on him.”

Blaine snaps harshly, “I don’t cheat on my boyfriend because I _love_ him, not because I’m afraid of him!”

“Interesting,” Sebastian muses after a pause, “So you’ve decided to straighten up and fly right?”

“Whatever _that_ means,” Blaine grumbles.

“I just figured, after the way we… _bantered_ last year, that maybe I might finally have a chance with you after the Boy Wonder went off to college…oh, wait, that’s right, he didn’t make it in, did he?”

At this, Blaine has had enough and tries to leave, but Sebastian manages to stop him with a finger to his sternum, which… _jesus_ it’s unfair how when it comes to Sebastian, he’s always felt the need to stand up and listen. He’ll admit it, Sebastian compels him, fascinates him, and…”stand up” really isn’t a metaphor anymore, Sebastian…turns him on. Has always turned him on.

“You will never convince me that you’re at all satisfied with the sex you get from the Boy Wonder,” Sebastian purrs, “I mean, is he even man enough to get it up?”

“Of course he is—” Blaine answers roughly, batting away Sebastian’s hand, but he stays, just half a foot away from him, gazing at him.

“But I’ll bet he’s gentle,” Sebastian says quietly, “And I know you, Blaine, better than he thinks I do. Better than even you think I do. I know what you need, and I’m sure he can’t give it to you.” His eyebrows twitch meaningfully.

“For your information, he can top just fine.”

Sebastian grins, “So I am right? You are a power bottom.”

“We’re versatile,” Blaine retorts weakly, his eyes darting away.

In truth, they’d really only tried sex twice. Or, well, _anal sex_ , which Blaine has to remind himself is only a _kind_ of sex, that there are other ways to do it, and they’ve done those other ways plenty of times. There was that disastrous first attempt, before the musical, in which Kurt had ended up hurt; at the time, Blaine had no idea how much pain Kurt was in, or he certainly wouldn’t have continued, but…it had been like a dream, finally pushing himself inside his boyfriend, this man he loved, and _feeling_ so excited and warm and impossibly _connected_. It was so overwhelming that, honestly, he had barely lasted a few minutes. Though, after realizing Kurt had been gritting his teeth through it, stroking himself desperately though he remained flaccid once the penetration started, he was relieved he’d finished so quickly.

He began to research what they’d done wrong and realized that the porn he’d occasionally watched (though he fought back his shame after every orgasm) had not prepared him for the realities of gay sex. And so, equipped with some new knowledge, when it came time to try again, he was more prepared: condoms (because, he told Kurt, it was _always_ better to be safe than sorry), lube that would work with condoms, and lots of advice for how to make it work, including, going _slowly_.

Kurt had still been completely gun shy about bottoming again, so Blaine had eagerly volunteered; he wanted to know what it felt like, too. He wanted to experience all of it.

And so, they took their time, with foreplay, with getting Blaine relaxed. They tried it with Blaine on his back, instead of with Kurt bent over like they’d done before. And Kurt wore the condom and they used _so much_ lube, and when Kurt slid inside slowly, Blaine was sure this was even better. He’d never known he could feel so strongly like Kurt was a part of him as when Kurt was inside him, and, horrible pun though it was, he told himself he was so full of love he was about to burst…

And yet, cursing the condom, Kurt went soft.

They tried it repeatedly, going back to foreplay to get him hard, but as soon as he really penetrated Blaine and began to move, he would go soft. They even tried it without the condom, reasoning it would be the last time, that they’d stick to condoms after this point, but…still.

After a frustrated forty minutes, Kurt’s breath caught as he murmured miserably, “I think I just don’t like anal sex.”

And Blaine…”I can…live without it,” he’d whispered.

Still, in an attempt to make Blaine happy, Kurt had suggested a handjob and, at the last moment, he pushed himself inside Blaine as he came and Blaine, feeling this, nearly wept, wondering if it would be the last time he would ever feel this level of intimacy with the man he loved.

And since then, they’d discovered all sorts of other ways of having sex. The hands, the mouths (and admittedly, after some practice, Kurt came to give _outstanding_ head), even the frottage, the thigh humping, and Kurt would let him fuck, non-penetratively, between his cheeks…

And it was all good. It was all _beautiful_ , and Kurt was almost _radiant_ with that post-orgasmic bliss in his expression.

And now, Sebastian, still smirking, still appraising him. “Versatile. How lucky for you, it’s certainly beneficial to be skilled. But I can tell you’re not getting everything you want.” His gaze shifts, pointedly, downward.

Blaine shoves him away, finally losing his temper, “I am perfectly content with Kurt, and even if I weren’t, I would _never_ touch you.”

Sebastian dusts himself off, and gets the last word in as Blaine leaves, “It’s not as though you don’t _want_ to, Anderson…”

Blaine’s head is a mess, full of roiling thoughts, and he pushes through the people, trying to find his friends, and then, he sees them, Unique still dancing and chatting with the fag stag, but there’s…Brittany and Tina, off in the corner, making out, to the squeals of mingled disgust and fascination of the gay men watching, and Karofsky, still at the table with Hervry, but there’s his hand, high up on the older man’s thigh, and as Blaine watches, he’s squeezing the bulge there, and…oh god, is this ever a mess.

He’s outside in the fresh air, ignoring the warning of the bouncer that he might not be allowed back in, and he can’t stop thinking of Sebastian’s smug and cocky and infuriating and gorgeous face.

Sebastian, who had insinuated in texts all last year that he fucked like a stallion, and was hung like one, too.

Because the last thing Blaine wants to admit to _anyone_ , not Sebastian, not himself, and _never_ to Kurt, is that he misses what he isn’t getting. That sometimes, when he watches the porn (no more bareback, though) that he’s watching now more than ever, he thinks about fucking or _being_ fucked by someone else, who loves it as much as he does.

And that sometimes, it feels like more than fantasy. Sometimes, he really, really needs it to be real.

And the fact that it can never, _will_ never, be Kurt…makes him crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from Adele, “Skyfall,” St. Vincent, “Paris is Burning,” and Purity Ring, “Cartographist.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Adam: Quiet Sophomore football player in Glee  
> Merry: Young lesbian in Glee  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, Stephanie took things a bit further than Quinn was prepared for, things were weird, but improving  
> Steve: Stephanie's ex-boyfriend, also a Yale student, not doing well in his classes  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, Quinn's friend  
> Lulu: Quinn's Yale friend, she discusses Puck and Beth with her, they take the Feminism seminar together  
> Rob: Quinn's Yale friend, Stephanie's advisor at the radio station, gay ally  
> Lucas: Gay classmate of Quinn's, irritates Quinn because he sucks up, seems to sense Quinn is gay


	33. If you want something, don't ask for nothing

_If you want something, don’t ask for nothing_

 

All in all, things in Chicago are pretty good. Right now, in the dead of winter, really isn’t his favorite time to be here (he’d thought the way the snow had rolled through and just blanketed Lima had been bad enough when they had rough winters, but here, it’s biting wind, and negative temperatures, and ice that lasts for weeks). But there’s enough pleasure in his life that he can overlook the fact that it literally hurts his skin within ten seconds of going outside.

He knew he was a good dancer when he came to school, but he had no idea how much better he could become, and how hard he’d have to work to get there. The schedule is rigorous; they dance like it’s their full-time job, six days a week, plus extra practice. He’s learning a lot, and he loves the extra hours he spends in the practice studio, usually with Sandra and Kate and some of their other friends, practicing, critiquing each other, laughing. Already he can tell he’d going to get a lot out of the program.

The drawback, the fact that Tina is so far away, and still hasn’t been able to visit, is something he doesn’t dwell on.

They’re both busy people. Mike’s a good student, and that sort of work ethic means he’s always putting in some additional practice. He knows Tina puts extra effort into every assignment, even though they’d always agreed that classwork at McKinley was a cinch, and she has all her extracurriculars, and Mike has his, if you consider partying and going out into the city extracurricular.

Still, they’re constantly texting, which suits Mike fine, because he’s always had an easier time with words when he has time to think and write them down. But he likes their phone calls, too, which happen once a week or so.

Tonight, he’s actually taking the time to relax in his apartment to start off his weekend (which is really just Sundays). He lives by himself, because his father didn’t want roommates interfering with Mike’s schooling, and though Mike can’t really fathom how they would, he greatly appreciates the space and the solitude. He’s reading (George Takei’s autobiography, actually, and no matter how often he tries to tell his friends that it was published before Takei even came out, they still tease him about it), waiting for Artie to text back to see if maybe they can get a game of _Call of Duty_ going. Although he knows Artie’s been busy lately, what with the play and the musical and his birthday just passing this week.

When his phone starts buzzing, he’s surprised to see that it’s because Tina is calling. But certainly not disappointed, and it’s with a grin that he answers, “Hey!”

“Hey,” Tina responds, and her voice is very subdued.

He’s quiet for a few moments, before he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Remember…what we talked about over the New Year?”

Mike winces a bit, before frustration wells up, because it’s only been like _a month_ , and, “I thought we agreed not to talk about that,” he says sharply.

“No, listen, because I need to,” Tina pleads. Mike grinds his teeth, and she correctly interprets his silence as consent, “I know you said you didn’t want to hear about it if I did…need to do some exploring. But I really think you need to know that I made out with Brittany.”

“You… _what_?”

“Remember when I told you I was going dancing at the gay club, with Blaine and Brittany? Because I knew I’d never find other dance partners that even _came close_ to you anywhere else in Lima?” she asks, a hint of amusement entering her voice toward the end.

Mike smiles a bit begrudgingly, “Yeah, I remember.”

“It happened while we were there, while we were both drunk.”

“While…how drunk were you?” he asks, but there isn’t accusation in his tone, just concern.

“I was pretty drunk,” she concedes, “But I knew exactly what I was doing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He swallows, digesting this, knowing that most men would probably have a raging hard-on imagining this, but not him. It’s not that he’s possessive, exactly, and it’s not really that her wanting to look elsewhere makes him feel insignificant or not enough for her. It’s just…he knows what he prefers, and he prefers fidelity. Monogamy.

“Why are you telling me this?” he finally asks.

“Because I know now, that I just want you,” Tina answers with conviction. He’s a bit surprised at her answer, and feels his eyebrows rise. “It…I don’t really want to call it a mistake, because I learned from it, but…I get it now. That curiosity, that desire I had…it’s gone. It was better left as a fantasy, because the reality? It just doesn’t work for me. Kissing girls in my head might sound fun and sexy and really awesome, but actually _doing_ it just makes me wish they had angular jaws and strong arms and stubble, and _smelled like men_. I just…I know you didn’t want to know, but I had to tell you, because I needed you to know that my curiosity has been sated. I’m not looking for anyone else anymore.”

“Oh…okay, well. That’s good.” Mike answers a little stiltedly.

There’s another awkward silence, which doesn’t happen between them often. Usually their silences are content, where even if they don’t have anything to say, they’re happy to just listen to each other breathe, occasionally saying “I love you,” or “I miss you,” and it isn’t sad, it’s honest, and they feel close.

“I’m just glad I figured it out,” Tina says, relief evident in her voice.

“I just wish you hadn’t told me,” Mike answers in a rush of words.

“What…? But I thought, you’d be relieved.”

“I am, but…” How could he explain it? “I think I would have been happier not knowing. Not having to think about the specifics of what happened. Hell, I probably would prefer to have just _figured out_ that you had satisfied your curiosity from the way you were treating me, or maybe have found out months later that you were no longer looking, with enough time passing that I could never figure out how you’d decided that, so it wouldn’t stay in my head.”

“I’m so sorry,” Tina chokes, her voice thick.

“It’s okay,” Mike assures quietly, “You couldn’t have really known just how much I didn’t want to know. I’m not sure I did, until right now.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Just give me some time.” At her shaky inhale, he says, “I’m not saying I need a break from our relationship. Just. Let me make the next move, okay? Let me call you. Or text you.”

“Okay.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, making out with Brittany,” he tries to reassure her, “There’s nothing wrong with that. You had my okay. Don’t feel like it was wrong.”

“Okay.”

They hang up after a few more moments of awkward silence, and Mike rubs his face. And a few moments later, there’s a knock on his door.

He’s pretty sure he knows who it is as he gets up to answer. Although many of the students in his program live in this building, it was Sandra and Kate that he noticed first, and they noticed him, and they befriended each other. The fact that they all live in the same building means they spend a lot of time together, which is good, because they’re a pair of expressive, social girls—just the type of people Mike needs to bring him out of his shell.

Sandra is the one who takes one look at his face when he opens the door and asks, “What’s up, Mike?”

“Oh, um, nothing,” Mike answers, surprised, because most people don’t tend to notice his shifts in mood, “Just, conversation with Tina.”

Kate gives him an appraising look and says, “Right, well, girl trouble, okay. All the more reason to get drunk! Come on, Shannon’s having a party!”

And though later in the evening, he’ll have to brush off Kate’s questions about whether he wants to talk about what happened with Tina, and Sandra will act way too much like a waitress making sure he has all the drinks he wants, he appreciates his school friends more than he can really say. Literally, kind of, because words are hard sometimes.

 

_Like my jealousy, too hot, too greedy_

 

It’s the thing that kind of always happens to her, how she gets bored and then starts to feel the urge to meddle. But, she hopes, at least _this_ time, she’s not just meddling to be a bitch.

Plus, it helps distract her from the clusterfuck she opened up at work with Helen and Angela, which is…Helen still won’t talk to her, and all the other employees whisper in English and Spanish and Creole all around her about what must have happened, and she hasn’t even really had a chance to see or talk to Angela.

First, it’s texting Quinn.

 

**Tana: when r u finally going to tell berry  
that youre a big ol muffdiver?**

 

**Q: Seriously?**

**Q: Well I guess I have to wait until I, um,**  
**dive muff for the first time before I can**  
**tell her that**

 

**Tana: ha ha**

**Tana: and yes seriously, its stupid not to,  
shes supposed to be ur best friend**

 

No answer, but she knows Quinn’s thinking about it.

And, because a two-pronged pincer attack is always more effective…

She joins Rachel on the couch one evening, “So,” she starts, “Given any more thought to how sexy women are?”

Rachel flushes darkly, which Santana hopes is just because of how forward she’s being, _not_ because Rachel’s maybe been thinking about _her_ … “Good evening, Santana.”

She chuckles, “Alright, it’s cool, we don’t have to talk about it. I’m just waiting for the day I get to be your wingwoman, that’s all.”

Rachel shrugs a little bit, ignoring the wingwoman comment. “Of course I’ve thought about women since our conversation,” she mutters, “But nothing’s really changed. It’s still really just a…sexual thing.”

“Too bad,” Santana replies conversationally, “But maybe you’re lucky that way, bitches be crazy.”

Rachel peers at her as if she suspects, suddenly, that Santana is hiding something, so Santana hurries on.

“Talked to Kurt about it at all?”

Rachel sighs, “No.” She gazes at Santana imploringly for a moment, before asking, “Is he mad at me?”

She blinks, “Not that…I’m aware of? I think he’s just exhausted from work.”

Nodding absently, Rachel twists her mouth for a moment before saying, “I feel like something changed between us when I…came out, I guess? It feels really weird to think of it like that. I still feel like he’s one of my best friends, but I guess…it’s like, before, when he thought I was straight, I was a f-fag hag, an ally…and now I guess I’m part of the long acronym and that…makes him see me differently.”

Santana tries not to feel bad about the fact that _she_ sees Rachel differently now, but that’s because of what Kurt said more than anything, “I don’t really see you differently,” she half-lies, “No offense, but I guess I always saw you as the type of girl who’d try anything.”

Rachel’s expression sours a little, but she appears to take Santana’s non-intentional offense to heart. “That’s the thing, though, is I _don’t_ feel like that type of girl because I don’t know that I ever want to try it. But even just knowing it’s inside me…I guess I worry he feels something of the same, but without your positivism. That in spite of what he says, he’s really just as uncomfortable with female bisexuality as he is with male.”

Santana feels _another_ pang of guilt at this, at the way she sometimes wishes Brittany weren’t into men, too, but… “Ah, so…bisexual? You’re more okay with that label now?”

A hesitation, then Rachel says, “Sure. It’s probably the most accurate, even though I feel it constricts me somewhat.”

“Well, I guess if you’re just going to continue to date guys you don’t have to come out. To everyone, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Rachel twists her mouth, “It’s not something I want to bring up, really, but…if it came to it, if there was an opportunity to do it that felt right? I would. If someone called me straight, I’d correct them. That’s more or less what happened a couple weeks ago.”

“But that hasn’t happened yet, since Kurt and I?” Santana intuits.

Rachel nods. Santana figured as much. If she’d told Quinn, Quinn would’ve certainly responded by spilling her own secret. But from the sound of it, Rachel isn’t keen to tell Quinn just on principle; she needs “an opportunity.”

Which means it looks like it’s down to Quinn, after all.

It’s weird, feeling like a go-between for these two. It’s weird to know something about them that they don’t know about each other. They always seemed to know the other one’s business, all throughout high school.

And she can’t really say why she needs them to come out, already. Maybe it’s discomfort with knowing something; she’s not the best at keeping secrets. Maybe she hopes that Rachel finding out about Quinn will distract her from the whole potential idea of Santana, if Kurt is right about _that_ having been in her head. And maybe, she hopes that Quinn finding out that Rachel just can never love women will help her move on. Maybe jump back into bed with that cute roommate of hers.

But regardless, she’s back to texting Quinn.

 

**Tana: this is really something u have to  
bring up with Rachel, u kno**

 

 _Because_ , she thinks _, Rachel is not nearly comfortable enough with her sexuality to bring it up first_.

 

**Q: Well, obviously. She’s not going to  
bring up my sexuality for me.**

 

Goddamn Quinn for being so logical.

 

**Tana: oh u kno what I mean. Bring it up  
and soon**

 

**Q: What’s the rush and why in hell are  
you so worried about it?**

 

Fair question.

 

 **Tana: because in case u havent noticed,**  
**ur two of the people closest to me and I**  
**kind of care about you two continuing to**  
**get along**

 

 **Q: Right. Well. I’m hardly comfortable**  
**with my sexuality. But we’ll see. Maybe**  
**I’ll get up the courage next weekend.**

 

Thank god.

 

**Tana: gimme some warning and I can  
make sure Kurt and I are somewhere else**

 

 **Q: Yeah, that probably won’t be**  
**necessary. And thanks, but you need to**  
**shut up about this now. I’ll do it when**  
**I’m good and ready.**

 

She’s just beginning to feel smug, because Quinn dismissing her feels like progress, when she gets another text.

 

**Britt-Britt: can I call u**

 

She’s not even really sure why it’s a _question_ , and in response, she closes the bedroom door and calls Brittany instead.

And after Brittany answers, a little subdued, she’s only a little cautious when she greets with “Hey.” If Brittany’s upset about something, it’s best to let her spill on her own terms.

Brittany’s briefly quiet on the line, then says, “I think I have something I’m supposed to tell you, but I realized we never talked about whether we were supposed to tell.”

It’s one of those moments when what Brittany says doesn’t quite add up to her, though admittedly it’s because it’s convoluted rather than completely non sequitur. She’s usually better at this. “What?”

“I made out with Tina,” Brittany answers, and she sounds _mostly_ casual, but with an edge Santana can’t identify.

“ _Tina_?!” she replies, half-intrigued and half-amused, “No way. She’s so straight she thinks Boy Chang’s abs have a personality.”

“Mike’s nice,” Brittany defends automatically, and Santana fights the urge to roll her eyes. This is always how it is with Brittany’s exes, no matter how casual they were. “But yeah, there were lady kisses.”

“How was it?” Santana asks, feeling…well, mostly fascinated. But there’s a twinge of something there. Something uncomfortable.

“Oh, it was kinda hot. She’s a good kisser, even when she’s drunk. I don’t think I want to do it again and I don’t think she does, either, but it was fun.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Santana adds. They’re quiet for a moment, and Santana reflects back on what Brittany said when the conversation first began. They never _did_ clarify whether they were supposed to tell each other about what might happen, but she supposes it makes sense to do so. However, she hasn’t done anything, not _really_ , and though she suspects Brittany might be waiting for her to confess anything, Santana finds that she doesn’t want to tell about her awkward semi-date with Angela. _I didn’t actually do anything_ , she keeps reminding herself.

Eventually, she asks, “Why don’t you think you want to make out with Tina again? I mean, she is pretty hot, despite dressing really weird.”

“Well…I kind of wanted to talk about that,” Brittany answers tentatively.

There’s a sudden jolt in Santana stomach as she realizes that just telling her about Tina is _not_ the reason Brittany has been so _off_ this entire call. There’s something _else_ , and she has a bad feeling about it. “Oh. Okay.”

Brittany takes a deep breath, “I don’t know if you’re going to be happy. But, when I made out with Tina, like, it was _fun_ , but it wasn’t what I wanted.”

“No?”

“No. Because, well. She wasn’t you.”

“Oh.” It’s surprisingly sweet, and she feels warm for a moment, but it doesn’t explain why Brittany thought she wouldn’t be happy. “So, wait. Do you want to cancel our deal?” She doesn’t _want_ to, but, maybe she can save face with Angela. Abruptly, the accusation of keeping a girl _in reserve_ comes back to her, but she tells herself that’s _not_ what she’s doing, and it’s _not_ what she did with Helen. She has faith in herself and Brittany. They’ll make it, it’s only a few more months until Brittany comes to New York.

 _More like half a damn year_ , she can’t help thinking.

“No, I just want our deal to be different.”

Again with the sinking feeling in her stomach. “Different how?”

“Right now…” Brittany begins, and she sounds thoughtful, “Right now our deal is that I can make out with girls. But I don’t really want to, I don’t think, because it makes me miss you. Because I know, from all the kissing I’ve done, that you’re the best girl kisser because you make my heart do that thing where it makes me all warm. Like I’m going to have a heart attack.” Santana smiles in spite of herself, and lets Brittany continue, “What I really miss is kissing boys.” _Jolt_. “I don’t miss having a boyfriend because right now I’m in love with you. But boys kiss different and they feel different. And that’s what I miss. The feeling of boys without having the feelings _for_ boys.”

“We talked about this,” Santana starts after a shaky breath, “I don’t…I don’t like the thought of you with guys. It feels dangerous.”

“I wish you believed me when I told you it wasn’t.” Brittany sounds _so_ disappointed, it crushes Santana’s heart, but…that gnawing hole in the pit of her stomach is stronger.

“I wish I did, too,” Santana answers sincerely.

“It’s just not fair,” Brittany blurts, and she actually sounds hurt now. “You only like girls, and you can kiss them, so you can kiss whoever you want. I like both, and because no girl in the world can begin to compare to you, I want boys, but you won’t let me kiss who I want.”

“I know, but…I’m sorry.”

Another short silence. “What if I didn’t tell you?”

“Are you saying you’re going to anyway?” Santana asks in shock.

“Never,” Brittany vows, “But we could agree that if I do anything, you just don’t know about it. You’d never have to worry about details.”

“I…” Santana thinks about it, and weighs just how much she _loves_ Brittany with how much it makes her heart ache to think about her with guys, and she knows it’s irrational, she _knows_ Brittany loves her, too, but… “I don’t know. I think it would haunt me just knowing it was _happening_ …”

“You wouldn’t know for sure if we both pretended it wasn’t.”

She chuckles hollowly, “Oh, believe me, I’d know. You’re like, the hottest girl I’ve ever seen, of course you’d find guys willing to fool around.”

“But still,” Brittany pleads.

She just _can’t_. “Let me think about it, okay?”

“Okay,” Brittany sighs dejectedly, like she already knows Santana’s answer will be no. _Which it probably will be_ , Santana reflects bitterly, angry with herself for feeling so ridiculously insecure about _boys_. She knows she’s hot. She knows she’s an amazing lay. And she knows boys are basically worthless, especially high school boys. Most importantly, she knows that Brittany loves her. So why does this bother her so much?

There’s no good answer, and the conversation ends quickly afterwards, without much more than a disappointed farewell. Santana tosses her phone at the foot of her bed and just lies on her back, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing and everything at once.

This isn’t what she thought it would be like.

 

_I’m not a lost cause, I’m just stuck in this spot_

 

As soon as she makes it to Rachel’s apartment, the gravity of what’s going to happen starts to weigh on her.

Because Santana is there, immediately smirking at her as she walks through the door with Rachel, after stamping a bit to get the salt off her boots. They make brief eye contact, Santana tilts her head slightly, almost a challenge, and Quinn looks away. Rachel is ushering her into the bedroom, urging her to put down her bag and take off her shoes and get comfortable, and Quinn is happy to comply, but she feels Santana’s eyes on her as she walks in.

It’s the day after Valentine’s Day, and if she’s honest, she’s still waiting for a mention of Finn from Rachel.

She wishes she trusted that it really _was_ finished between them, but, as Rachel’s barely talked about it, and she’s only heard bits and pieces from others, what is she to expect? They’ve _always_ managed to get back together. All it would take would be one, grand, sweeping romantic gesture from Finn, and she’d fall into his arms, just like she _always_ has. And she saw the way seeing Finn around Thanksgiving had turned Rachel into a sobbing mess.

Instead, so far there’s no mention of him as they take some time to relax, and Quinn convinces Rachel that they should go out to dinner. When Rachel invites Santana along, Quinn prickles, because she can’t tell if Rachel’s just being polite or if she feels weird being alone with Quinn. Either way, Santana waves them off and tells them she doesn’t feel like getting dressed and she ate breakfast pretty recently. She gives Quinn a pointed look when she and Rachel finally set out to find some dinner.

Even though it’s not _actually_ Valentine’s Day, Quinn feels particularly conspicuous as they walk into their chosen restaurant. Quinn had pushed for some moderately priced Thai, promising to pay for Rachel’s meal, and though Rachel refused to allow her to do so, she’d eventually consented. Even though she’d changed out of her jeans and into a skirt and blazer, Quinn still feels underdressed. She refuses to look at the other smiling couples around them. Are late Valentine’s dates something people do?

Rachel grins as she studies the menu, noting that she has several vegan options (something that never fails to please her even when she expects it). Quinn watches her happily peruse the menu for longer than is normal and then, blushing, studies her own menu.

There’s an awkward silence after they order that lasts only for a little while before the subject of classes comes up. It’s something they couldn’t discuss much, being so early in their semesters the last time they were face to face, and especially when they get on the topic of Quinn’s History of Theater survey course, they spend a lot of time discussing things they’ve both learned and enhancing each others’ knowledge. Even when the topic shifts to the Feminism seminar, they still have a lot to say.

“I’m jealous,” Rachel sighs, “In some ways I wish I were going to a traditional university, because there’s a lot I want to learn. I mean, I know I’m a feminist, or think I am, but there are things I haven’t thought a lot about, and things I know I don’t know about.”

“Yeah,” Quinn nods, “I mean, I knew the basic stuff, but now I’m learning about how race and socioeconomic class play into the same system, and it just goes so much deeper than I thought it could.”

“Race?” Rachel asks, looking completely perplexed for a moment, but her expression clears somewhat, “I think I get it, on the surface. I just wish I knew more.”

“At least you know enough to realize you can love men and still be a feminist,” Quinn responds a bit bitterly, thinking back to something Stephanie said and barely noting the way Rachel’s expression turns a bit surprised. She’s still shocked by Stephanie’s words, but then, when she thinks back to herself at age 15, before she was ever pregnant, before she was forced to face horrific choices… _I thought the same thing_.

She’s not sure, because she doesn’t talk about it much, but she has the idea that Stephanie’s life hasn’t been particularly easy. She’s picked up on a few things. She really doesn’t discuss her mother, she’s been raised by her white grandmother. She was the only person of color at her high school. People reacted in different ways to struggles, she supposes. Rachel, clearly, reacted similarly to her, and the thought relieves her somewhat.

She’s about to take a breath, to bring up things she’s learned about sexuality in class, hoping to segue into talking about her _own_ sexuality, when the server brings them their check. Quinn snatches it up, and the opportunity feels lost.

Besides, she reflects as they head back to Rachel’s apartment, she still has the whole weekend to get through. If Rachel had reacted badly…

Not that she would. Or _should_. But…still.

 _What if she reacted…well. Very,_ very _, well._

She does her best to dispel those kinds of thoughts from her mind. She’s not ready for them. She may never be, she thinks. It’s not like she's even ever had an orgasm before. There is such a temptation to fantasize about someone coming along and doing it _for_ her, just giving them to her, without any instruction or challenge, but…perhaps Stephanie had a point. Maybe she should be the first to give herself an orgasm.

When they get home, Kurt greets them at the sink, where he’s doing several days worth of dishes, and Rachel goes into the bathroom. Santana sidles over to where Quinn is taking off her shoes and coat at the door.

“Tell her?” she murmurs.

“No,” she snaps quietly, “Not yet.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“The right time,” she says tersely. Over the sound of the running water and Kurt clanking dishes, they hear the bathroom door open. Santana takes a step away from Quinn, glances awkwardly at Rachel, and shuffles back to her armchair, raising her arms and stretching exaggeratedly in mock casualness. Quinn wants to roll her eyes, but instead her gaze fixates on the dimples on Santana’s lower back as her t-shirt lifts. She glances away and back at Rachel, whose brow is wrinkled, and smiles awkwardly. “Want to watch something? Kurt’s here, we could keep going with _Buffy_.”

“Ooh! Yes!” Rachel says excitedly. They’re nearing the end of Season 5, and Rachel immediately begins to bombard Quinn with how much she likes this season, with the big bad that can give Buffy a run for her money in all aspects, “even looks!”

As the weekend continues, there just doesn’t seem to be an opportunity. Kurt convinces them to go shopping for some spring fashion in the late morning on Saturday, and by the time they make it home after shopping and lunch in the mid-afternoon, Santana is awake, and they’re all back to enjoying the TV together.

At one point, Kurt excuses himself to take a phone call from Blaine, and Rachel takes the opportunity while the show is paused to respond to some emails. Quinn gets up to make a cup of hot chocolate, and Santana sidles into the kitchenette, muttering, “Seriously, if you want to be alone with her…”

“Dammit, Santana, I’ve got this,” she hisses back, “Just leave it alone.”

“Quinn?” Rachel’s voice sounds, closer than she’d thought. She doesn’t jump, but she turns to see Rachel standing, nearing the tile of the kitchenette.

“Yeah?”

“Can you make me a cup, too?”

“Of course,” Quinn nods. Santana stands there with an uncharacteristically guilty look on her face, then reaches for the cocoa powder as if she’d been intending to help all along. Rachel watches them for a few more moments before walking back to the couch, and Quinn just kicks Santana lightly in the shin. Santana manages to stifle her outburst and, glaring, turns and walks into the bedroom to save face.

 

_This heart’s trivialities are the world’s sole realities_

 

She knows that she’s rather self-involved, and therefore not the most intuitive person in the world, but even she can tell when someone is keeping something from her.

Quinn and Santana are _definitely_ whispering about something behind her back.

She feels like every time she looks away, Santana is giving Quinn some kind of pointed look, or muttering to her while Quinn looks annoyed. It’s weird, and she has a prickly feeling like she used to get in high school, just before she’d get slushied. Like her sixth sense was trying to warn her to watch her back.

Irrationally, she can’t help but think about Finn.

In all honestly, she’d shocked herself by not thinking about Finn once during Valentine’s Day. It used to be the kind of day that she’d spend fantasizing about her dream man, or enjoying him and their date that one time, but this year, all she’d done is smiled and hoped for the best for the couples she knew.

Oddly enough, she feels like Blaine’s advice worked, somehow. Even though her encounter with Jeremy was not ideal, she feels like she’s put it behind her, and that it somehow helped her put Finn behind her, as well. Some emotional and sexual distance, she thinks, to match the physical distance that will probably separate them all their lives.

She knows now, they just _don’t_ work together.

But now that she’s seen the way Quinn and Santana are whispering, it comes back, like a long-forgotten sore that suddenly aches with infection. That thought, that she’d tried not to dwell on, that Quinn had once dreamed of a life in Lima with Finn, that Quinn could fulfill that dream. Move back after Yale, after Finn finished his military service. She remembers how Finn would always go back to Quinn, how some part of him seemed to always love her, always want her. Hell, he’d even gone to their senior _prom_ with her, despite his engagement to Rachel. And Quinn…

She can’t see what else Quinn could be whispering about, what else she wouldn’t want Rachel to know, if it weren’t that Finn had done something, perhaps on Valentine’s Day itself, to win her back.

She tries to push away the feelings, but, there’s the whole fact that Quinn hasn’t dated anyone since she got to Yale. Which just seems _crazy_ , because that whole campus has to be filled with smart, wealthy, handsome men—just the type that Quinn would like, right? The type of people she’d grown up with. Had she not been dating because she’d wanted Finn for herself? Had this weird rift appear between them because Finn remained the one topic they _still_ couldn’t discuss, for fear of making the other one hurt or jealous?

She’s left wrestling with whether or not she’d really want to know. She’s over Finn, sure. But she can’t help but feel like it’d be a betrayal if Finn and Quinn dated again.

But, she is glad to see Quinn. And they do have some great talks, and laugh at the TV together, and she’s so warm and soft in Rachel’s bed at night. Rachel loves this, the waking up spooned against Quinn, warm and comfortable and relaxed. She really rarely shared a bed until Quinn started visiting, and even when she had, her queen bed meant she always had her own space. But sharing with Quinn is easier than she’d thought. When either of them would wake up in the night needing to turn over, the other would wake up just enough to turn with them, and they’d sink back into sleep together again.

Even with the doubts hanging over her head, she’s glad Quinn is there. She’s always glad to be around Quinn.

By Saturday evening, she’s mostly just sad that Quinn will be leaving the next morning, to give herself time to do homework in the afternoon and Rachel time to work a half shift at the clothing store. Kurt has long since retired for bed, exhausted from their day shopping, and Santana had headed off to work a few hours ago. She and Quinn continue to watch _The X-Files_ while eating takeout, but finally have to admit that they’re going to need to get some sleep.

When Rachel comes back from the bathroom after completing her nightly ritual, she finds Quinn pacing in the bedroom, as much as she can with the limited space. She stops and faces Rachel warily and says, “I have something I need to tell you.”

The bottom drops out of Rachel’s stomach and it feels already like she’s about to cry. She swallows back the teary sensation and croaks, “Okay,” and, feeling like her knees are about to buckle, she slips past Quinn to sit heavily on her bed.

Quinn watches her, and then sits lightly on the edge of Santana’s bed. She stares at her hands for several long moments, then looks up and meets Rachel’s eye. “I’m gay.”

Rachel’s mouth drops open in complete shock, “W-what?” Quinn winces and looks away, clearly misinterpreting Rachel’s tone, so she goes on quickly, “No, no, I’m not…upset or anything, just surprised. I thought you were going to tell me you and Finn had gotten back together!” she rambles, laughing a bit in relief.

“ _Finn_?” Quinn asks incredulously, eying Rachel uncertainly.

Rachel drops her gaze, “Yes, well. I couldn’t figure out what else you and Santana would be muttering about.” Her eyes widen, and she glances back up, “Wait. So Santana knows?”

Quinn nods slowly, “Yeah. She knows.”

“Oh,” Rachel sighs. It hurts, just a little, that Santana knew before she did. But she can rationalize it. Quinn and Santana were sort of best friends for a long time, through their ups and downs, and Santana is gay. She and Quinn haven’t been confiding in each other much. And Santana knows about Rachel’s sexuality, and Quinn doesn’t. Rachel hesitates, feeling like it’s time to tell her own secret, but something else, born of insecurity, bursts out of her mouth instead, “Who else knows?”

There’s a pause before Quinn answers, and she speaks quickly. “Sean. Puck. Zizes.”

“Zizes?” Rachel asks, hearing the hurt and incredulity in her own tone.

“It was easy,” Quinn mumbles, “I didn’t care about her opinion.”

“And you care about mine,” Rachel deadpans, “I’m supposed to be your best friend, and I’m the fifth person to find out about this.”

“I _do_ care about your opinion, so much,” Quinn defends, her voice cracking.

“Do you?” Rachel challenges, “I am _fine_ with you being gay. Surprised, given how often we fought over Finn in high school. Although, actually, it explains a lot about high school. I’m _happy_ for you for figuring this out about yourself. But maybe it’s my feelings you don’t care about, because you had to know I’d be hurt to find out after _Lauren Zizes_.”

“Okay,” Quinn fires back, her hurt gone, her voice low and intense, “‘It explains a lot about high school’? Really? What does that even mean?”

“Just that…I could always tell you were hurting then, and thought I knew why, but this is just _another_ reason why you were in so much pain—”

Shaking her head, Quinn cuts in, “That reaction is _exactly_ why I hesitated to tell you. You’ve forgiven me _so much_ _more_ than I deserve for the way I was back then. Don’t use _this_ as yet another reason to interpret and excuse my bad behavior. I was _awful_ then. And sure, my sexuality didn’t _help_ the way I felt and the way I reacted to things and my general hostility to the world, but…please, don’t forgive me even more just because I’m gay. Don’t _pity_ me.”

Quinn looks away, her eyes glistening, and Rachel is speechless. She has forgiven Quinn completely; this isn’t a new reason to forgive Quinn, it’s a new reason to sympathize with her, and everything she had to struggle with. But telling Quinn this would be unhelpful, given her _ridiculous_ , Rachel thinks, sentiment, so instead, she admits, “I have something to tell you, too.”

Quinn glances up, her expression guarded, “What?”

“I…well.” She decides to be fully honest. “Do you remember my castmate, Jeremy?” Quinn nods, “We fooled around after the play’s opening night.” Quinn sits up straighter, and her expression closes off even more, if that’s possible, but she’s still watching Rachel, still listening. “It…wasn’t good. And somehow, in the middle of it all, I came to a realization, that I didn’t fully process until I was talking with Santana and Kurt afterwards.”

Rachel lets the statement hang in the air, not for dramatic effect (okay, maybe partly for that), but mostly because it’s _still_ so hard to say. Finally, Quinn asks in a soft voice, “What’s that?”

“I’m…bisexual. Sort of. I love men. But I’m also attracted to women. I just…don’t fall in love with them.”

“You’re bisexual?” Quinn breathes, staring at Rachel like she’s never seen her before.

“It’s…a recent discovery. I ignored it for a very long time because, like I said, I only love men.”

Quinn nods absently, still staring, then asks in a bitter voice, “Is that why you were worried I was with Finn? Because you only love men and you still love him?”

The question feels like a punch to the gut for a split second. Rachel is not sure why, because thinking of Finn really doesn’t hurt anymore, but _something_ about the way it comes from Quinn’s lips _does_ hurt. “He was my first love. A part of me will always love him a little bit, but…no. I’m not in love with Finn. That doesn’t mean I would have been happy if you two got together. It just. It would have hurt. You’re my best friend, and he’s my first love.”

“So…we are still best friends? Even after this?”

“Of course!” Rachel exclaims, “How can you even ask this? Quinn, like it or not, I forgave you for everything a long time ago because I just wanted to be your friend. Finding out you’re gay doesn’t affect anything. It can’t make me forgive you _more_. It just makes me prouder of everything you’ve had to go through. I admire you _so much_. And,” she makes the decision, again, to forgive, “It’s _okay_ that you didn’t tell me right away. I mean. Clearly I didn’t tell you everything I’d been going through, too. I see now how stupid it was, but a part of me was always worried you and Finn would find your way back to each other. That I’d somehow encourage you to do it if we talked about him.”

Despite herself, Quinn emits a sharp laugh, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

“But I’m glad that we got our secrets out of the way. I just want us to be close again. I want to be able to _talk_ to you.”

“Me, too, Rachel,” Quinn says quietly. She hesitates, like there’s more she wants to say, but Rachel doesn’t notice until she’s up and halfway to her, arms open, waiting for her. Quinn stands and wraps Rachel up in a firm, strong hug. Rachel feels Quinn’s breath catch as they hold each other for a long moment, Quinn exhales a slow, relieved breath, and doesn’t speak more.

When they break apart, Rachel strides back over to her bed and pulls down the covers, beginning to settle in. Quinn hovers uncertainly, watching her. Rachel looks up, smiles, and asks, “Is everything okay?”

“Are you sure you’re still okay with me sleeping next to you?” Quinn asks timidly, “I mean, I’d understand—”

“How can you ask me that?” Rachel asks in return, bewildered, “Of _course_ I’m okay with it. It’s not as though you coming out means you’re going to,” she almost says ‘molest,’ but decides against it, “ _seduce_ me or something!” A flicker passes over Quinn’s face, perhaps hurt, so Rachel pleads further, “Please, sleep next to me, like you always do. Besides, do you really want to find out Santana’s reaction to finding you in her bed?”

A low, reluctant chuckle, and Quinn heads over for the other side of the bed. Rachel curls into her as soon as she lays down, wrapping an arm around her stomach. “I’m so glad you told me,” she murmurs, “You’re my best friend. You can tell me anything.”

There’s a long pause before Quinn answers, “Okay.”

Rachel drifts off to sleep rather quickly. In her drowsiness, she is sometimes aware of Quinn moving slowly, carefully, trying not to wake her. At one point, she thinks she hears Quinn ask her if she’s awake, but when she tries to answer, she just murmurs sleepily. She barely remembers it the next morning.

 

_If I had an orchard, I’d work ‘til I’m sore_

 

He can hardly believe it when Valentine’s Day passes, because he’s been so busy the days are just flying by. When he thinks back to high school, just _last year_ , unbelievably, it felt like those days dragged by so slowly. Every little dramatic moment was amplified, felt like it lasted months.

Now, his jobs are such that anything remotely dramatic passes by as quickly as everything else. As quickly as the little free time he has, that average of one day a week. He barely knows where his evenings go, either, and finds himself passing out in the armchair in the living room watching TV. When this behavior starts to remind him unnervingly of his father, he decides he needs to stop watching TV in the evening if he’s not watching it with his roommates.

Although he would’ve liked to spend time with Blaine on Valentine’s Day, travel just wasn’t possible. He was needed on staff at the restaurant, because it was such a busy night and he hadn’t really accrued enough clout to be able to get time off for that night. The restaurant work is okay. Being a server is fast-paced and the time flies, and when he gets annoyed, it’s similar to the clothing store in that he can sass the customers a bit and, as long as he smiles, they think it’s hilarious and still tip him well. He comes home exhausted and dirty every day, which is a drawback. At least at the clothing store, his hair is still more or less in the same condition as the beginning of the day by the time he gets home.

Since he couldn’t visit, instead, they’d mailed each other gifts (new slacks for Blaine, luxury facial kit for Kurt), and he and Blaine had talked in the morning before Blaine went to school and that evening when Kurt got home. It had been a _very_ nice phone call. _Very_ relaxing, and he’d dozed off for a few minutes with his pants still halfway down his thighs before Blaine woke him back up and told him he loved him and that he should go to sleep for real.

He doesn’t think much about what else he could be doing. It’s a relief to be making enough money to pay all his bills and still be able to buy a few nice articles of clothing every month. He’s even saving a little, which is good, because once he manages to take some time off, he wants to visit Blaine, and he wants to go visit his father in D.C. Burt has a small apartment in Arlington with a futon he has invited Kurt to come sleep on any time. Carole visits when she can, although she doesn’t want to quit her job, she’s just cut back hours to make the distance work, and Burt comes home to Lima whenever he can, and so far they seem to be making it work just fine. Carole also feels bad leaving Sam by himself, although he is more than capable of taking care of the house while they’re gone. Kurt’s even more thankful Sam’s still living in his parents’ house, with both he and Finn gone. Sam really is a great guy.

When an opportunity arises, he is barely prepared for it.

It’s one of the regular customers at the clothing store, a lady in her mid-forties who spends a lot of time searching the racks to find rare and interesting clothing. She herself is always dressed very professionally in pantsuits or modest skirts, although Kurt never gave much thought to what she could be doing with the clothes, except to note that they’re not her size, and sometimes don’t even suit her gender. Probably she makes a profit reselling them on Ebay or something. Who cares?

But he likes her, and whenever they encounter one another, they discuss fashion. Sometimes, she asks him what he thinks about a particular piece, or a particular style, and he is always critically honest with her, which she seems to appreciate (for Kurt, fashion is too sacred to lie to a direct question just to make a sale).

After a conversation with her a few days after Valentine’s Day, she gives him a critical look and says, “You have good taste.”

He grins, “Thank you, I happen to think you do, too.”

She nods, smiling slightly, then reaches into her pocket to extract a business card, “I’m Tanya Lyons, fashion photographer, and I’m looking for interns. Give me a call sometime, we might be able to work something out.”

Kurt takes the card reverently, and is speechless for a few moments before uttering, “Thank you. I will do that.”

She offers a hand to shake, and he does, mindful to keep his grip firm and professional. He spends the rest of his day in a daze, wondering…

He calls to find out some more information. Tanya’s receptionist tells him they want him on-call basically every day, it’s unpaid, shoot lengths vary. He’ll mostly be helping to pick up clothes from sellers or dry cleaners and organize them, and retrieve them from the racks quickly for Tanya’s models.

And he’s torn.

He manages to catch Blaine on the phone that evening.

“What should I do?” he asks when he’s explained the situation.

“Well, it does sound like a good opportunity.”

“I know,” Kurt enthuses, “But…it’s unpaid and random, and I need to be able to afford to live here.”

“Maybe you can get a job that works around your random schedule?”

“Like what? Freelance sassing?”

Blaine chuckles, “I’m pretty sure you do that for free.”

“Only because I haven’t found anybody willing to pay me.”

Blaine’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I say, you should go for it. Aren’t opportunities like this the reason you came to New York?”

It’s those words that make him realize, it’s _not_ what he came here to do.

He decides to get a second opinion. Blaine has never had to afford rent, and has always had a comfortable allowance from his parents, but his roommates _have_. So the next time they’re all home, he sits them down, shows them the business card, and asks what they think.

“I’m barely making enough to afford anything right now,” Santana grumbles, “I’d definitely hesitate to limit the hours I’m _actually_ making money.”

“I agree,” Rachel chimes in, “But this could be _huge_ , Kurt. I mean. New York isn’t just performing arts. The Fashion Institute of Technology is here, too. And I know you love fashion just as much as performing.”

“Do I?” Kurt asks, “I’m not sure that I do. I mean, I suppose I could see pursuing fashion as a backup plan, but…I haven’t even really _tried_ Plan A. Not getting into NYADA felt like the end of that, but it could very well just be a setback.”

“There might still be time to apply this year,” Santana suggests.

“There isn’t,” Rachel refutes sadly, “The application deadline passed.”

“Oh.” He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d felt so defeated that he hadn’t even been watching for deadlines, although now he wishes he had. “I could apply for the next year.”

“Yeah,” Rachel encourages, “You should do that. And in the meantime, you can try this. See if it’s something you’d like to continue with.”

“I doubt that,” Santana rolls her eyes, “This internship sounds like you’ll just be ordered around for no pay. How is that worth it?”

Privately, he kind of agrees.

“I definitely have negative feelings associated with unpaid internships,” Rachel asserts, “Dad says they’re basically a form of corporate slave labor. But unlike actual slavery, they can really help you break into an industry and gain some relevant experience.”

“Yeah. True,” Kurt murmurs. Santana just twists her mouth and shrugs sullenly.

He ends up calling again, and actually getting Tanya on the line this time. He tells her he works around 50 hours a week and isn’t sure he has the time for the internship, although he wishes he did.

“Shame,” she intones, all business, “You would’ve been a great asset to have on board.”

“I agree,” Kurt answers optimistically, “I just wish I had the time and money.”

“Hmm,” she answers thoughtfully, and he stays on the line, uncertain, until she says, “Most of my shoots are on Saturdays. Think you could join us on just that day? I won’t make you be on call for any of the others.”

“I—of course!” Kurt answers, without really thinking, about how he gets some of his best tips on Saturdays, and that the clothing store always wants weekend help.

“Great,” she says warmly, “I’ll be in touch.”

He hangs up slowly, surprised at himself. It figures, that just when he gets used to his life’s schedule, something else comes up.

But it’s not a bad thing, is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Arcade Fire, “Neighborhood #2 (Laika),” Kate Bush, “Wuthering Heights,” Lights, “Heavy Rope,” Meat Puppets, “Why?,” and Fleet Foxes, “Helplessness Blues.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Sandra: One of Mike's closest friends at school  
> Kate: One of Mike's closest friend at school  
> Helen: Santana's sarcastic gay coworker friend, currently not on speaking terms because Helen feels like Santana lied to her and used her  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, Stephanie took things a bit further than Quinn was prepared for, things were weird, but improving  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, Quinn's friend  
> Jeremy: Male lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hook up at Gretchen's party  
> Angela: Santana's gay coworker that works during the day, knows Helen, went on an awkward semi-date that flopped when Santana told her she was in an open relationship


	34. Here comes a sign in the form of a girl

_Here comes a sign in the form of a girl_

 

She actually _doesn’t_ harass Quinn with texts Saturday night and Sunday morning. She figures if she does, Quinn could get distracted with it and suddenly lose all the courage she needs to come out to Rachel.

Not that she should really _need_ courage. Like, _god_. It’s _Rachel_. Sure, sure, she’s in love with her or whatever, but telling Rachel can really only help, she thinks. It’s not like she’ll react _badly_.

When she gets home and into bed after work, Rachel and Quinn are just waking up. She just rolls over and tries to block out their low, stilted murmuring until they finally leave the bedroom. She wakes up a little bit when they bustle around after their showers and pack Quinn’s bags, and she’s relieved when they finally leave so Quinn can catch her desired train and Rachel can head to the clothing store. She’s used to sleeping through Rachel, but both of them is harder. And they’re awfully chatty.

She gets out of bed at around 4, grumbles her way to the coffee machine and then notices Rachel sitting on the couch. She blinks sleepily, “You done your shift already?” she asks with begrudging politeness.

“Yes. It was only a half shift,” Rachel answers, still staring unnervingly at Santana.

Santana pushes the button so the coffee will start brewing and glances over her shoulder a few times to see Rachel still watching her. “ _What_ ,” she finally asks irritably, “You’re making my shoulders itch. How do you even _do_ that? Are you actually a Medusa?”

“We need to talk,” Rachel answers firmly.

Santana rolls her eyes, “Oh, god. I had nothing to do with your missing hairspray.”

“Wait, _what_?” Rachel frowns, then shakes her head, “I’m not _accusing_ you of anything, I just require a rather serious conversation.”

“Okay, okay, can I at least have a cup of coffee first?”

Rachel just nods and continues to watch Santana, which really does make her feel…deeply uncomfortable. Or something.

A few minutes later, she settles next to Rachel on the couch and takes her first glorious sip of coffee. She sighs in dramatic pleasure, then takes a spoonful of cereal and mumbles through it, “Alright. Talk.”

“You knew about Quinn,” Rachel states immediately.

It isn’t a question, and Santana doesn’t really get why it’s an issue, so she just nods, “Yeah. She told me a couple weeks ago.”

Rachel sighs forlornly. “I don’t understand. I’m…I’m hurt that she didn’t tell me until she’d already told several people.”

Santana raises an eyebrow, “It never occurred to you that she might’ve been afraid to tell you?”

“Why?” Rachel asks pleadingly, and Santana bites her cheek. She wishes she were more awake for this.

“Because sometimes telling the people most important to you is hardest. Like,” she swallows. She hates to talk about it. “Like with my _abuela_. I love her, almost more than my parents. That’s why I told her last, because her rejection would hurt more than anyone else’s.”

“Couldn’t she know I wouldn’t reject her?” Rachel asks, pained.

“You just _never know_. Rachel, not everyone grew up with parents like yours. Quinn’s parents—who were supposed to _love_ her unconditionally—rejected her when she got pregnant. Of course she’s going to be gun shy. Hell, I’d _never_ have _really_ thought my _abuela_ would reject me, even though I was afraid of it.” She looks away. “But she did. There’s always that fear, that coming out will fuck up everything.”

Rachel nods slowly, “I…get that. I mean. It’s not like I’ve told my dads. But that’s more because they don’t need to know, since in all likelihood I will end up with a man. Even though…I feel like, from with Kurt, telling gay men you’re actually bisexual changes the dynamic. I don’t think it would be quite the same with my fathers, but…maybe I am afraid, a little.”

Santana shrugs, “Yeah, well. Quinn is scared a lot.”

“I know,” Rachel concedes. She sighs, “I just wish we could’ve confided in each other more.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve been honest with her about some of the Finn stuff.”

Rachel turns hurt eyes to her again, “Did she say something about that?”

“No,” Santana lies, not wanting to get into all the things she and Quinn did discuss, “I just know, because of the way you were keeping the Finn stuff between you, me and Kurt. You were trying not to hurt Finn, I know, but I think keeping Quinn out of the loop hurt her, too.”

“You know, it’s funny,” Rachel muses, “But I thought she and I had become so distant because she was still in love with Finn. When she told me she was gay—”

Rachel is interrupted by a small clatter from the kitchen. She and Santana exchange a brief wide-eyed expression before both turning physically to look over the back of the couch, where Kurt is framed by the cabinets and counter, staring at them.

“Quinn is gay?” he asks, completely shocked.

“You’re home?!” Santana queries in surprise.

“How long have you been listening?” Rachel asks in trepidation.

“I…I just came out of my room like half a minute ago,” Kurt admits, “I guess you guys were so engrossed you didn’t hear me…”

“I thought you were at work!” Santana frowns.

“My shift got switched. I opened today. I came home at around two and napped for awhile.”

“Oh,” Rachel says, “You got home before I even did.”

“And you were probably gone before I even got home,” Santana frowns, “That sucks, you shouldn’t be walking to work alone when it’s that early and dark.”

“I know. I hate opening anyway,” Kurt mutters, “I’m hoping this was a one-time thing. They called me when I was asleep last night and asked if I could come in. I wasn’t about to bother either of you about it.” His expression changes, “But forget that. Did I hear right? Quinn is gay?”

Santana and Rachel are both silent for a moment before glancing at each other, and then Santana confirms, “Yeah. But she hasn’t come out to very many people yet, so…”

Kurt nods, “Okay. I take that kind of confidentiality very seriously, but…wow. This is big. Who else knows?”

“Us, Puck and Zizes,” Rachel reports.

“ _Zizes_?” Kurt repeats incredulously, then shakes his head, “Wow. Just, wow. Everything makes so much more sense now. The way she was in high school, the way she was with…” he’s looking at Rachel in fascination, then catches Santana’s eye and quickly modifies, “Finn.”

“Yeah,” Rachel agrees, “It does explain a lot. I told her so.”

“You did?” Santana questions, interested, wondering if _Rachel_ had somehow put together some of the same pieces she and now Kurt had.

Rachel nods, and looks distant, thoughtful. “I just remember _looking_ at her in high school, and _knowing_ she was hurting and not knowing why. I spent so much time trying to become her friend, because I wanted to _help_ her not be so hurt all the time. I thought, looking back, that it was the pregnancy, and the way she kept having to fight for Finn while his eye wandered…to me, incidentally,” she sounds both smug and guilty at this, “But now…I get it. She was hurting because she was gay.” She sighs, “But when I told her that, she got upset, and told me not to use this to think back to high school and excuse how much of a bitch she was. But I think it’s valid. I mean,” she gestures to Santana, “You got nicer once you came out. It’s a difficult burden to bear.”

“Well, I can agree with that,” Santana mutters, “But really, I’ll bet Quinn means that. She wants to move on from high school.”

“Don’t we all,” Kurt agrees pompously, then gives Santana another intrigued look.

“The best way is to be honest with each other. That’s what you and Quinn need, I think,” Santana addresses Rachel.

“I tried to be as honest with Quinn as possible during our conversation,” Rachel replies.

Santana nods. She knows Quinn wasn’t entirely honest with Rachel—she certainly couldn’t admit she is in love with her—but she hopes Rachel was.

She and Kurt manage a murmured conversation a little later, in the corner of the kitchen while Santana washes some dishes, and he gushes, “Oh. My. God. Quinn is crazy for Rachel.”

“Basically,” she hisses in return.

“How has Rachel not figured it out?”

“How long did it take _you_ to figure out Karofsky was into you?” Santana shoots back.

Kurt dismisses this with a wave of his hand, “Okay, but this is big.” His eyes widen, “What if…did you _hear_ her toward the end there? Talking about the way she used to stare at Quinn and feel her sadness?” He meets Santana’s eye excitedly, “ _What if Quinn is the girl she thought she had romantic potential with_?”

Santana blinks. It _does_ seem to fit, although a strange part of her is defensive. Rachel is supposed to have lingering feelings for _her_.

“I could _so_ see this,” Kurt continues in a low voice.

“Oh, that’s just lovely,” Santana answers bitterly, “But what happens when she realizes she can’t really fall for Quinn?” Kurt frowns, and Santana continues, “I’m not encouraging this, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m actually hoping that Rachel told Quinn she doesn’t fall in love with women and Quinn will move on.”

Kurt’s brow furrows, “Perhaps it’s the hopeless romantic in me, but I kind of want Quinn to get the girl.”

“I do, too,” Santana growls, “But a _different_ girl. I’m not putting my best friend’s heart in danger, in the hands of someone who doesn’t even think she could love her.”

Kurt just shrugs awkwardly to concede the point.

Santana can’t really explain why she’s gotten to this point, but the part of her that used to be slightly intrigued watching Rachel and Quinn cuddle is now petrified.

Maybe because she knows what it’s like to have her heart broken by her first love.

Her first love, the girl who once rejected her for a man.

 

_For we are many hometown ghosts_

 

It’s been almost two weeks, but that conversation with Quinn still weighs on him.

He’s surprised to find that her telling him that he didn’t assault her barely makes him feel better. He’s spent enough months beating himself up and scrutinizing every encounter he’s ever had for her words to change how afraid he is. Although, of course, there aren’t as many women as he lets people believe. Even when talking to Kurt about this, back in the fall, he’d let Kurt believe the false numbers. Most of those women he’s able to put behind him, to remember how they’d put sex on the table before drinking even happened, or how enthusiastically they’d pursued him. Things like that. The alcohol still bothers him, which is why he’s been trying to prove to himself that he can drink responsibly with women and keep them safe.

But Quinn…who had consented to sex with him because she was gay. Trying to prove she was straight.

He has trouble wrapping his head around this and making it okay. If she was gay, wouldn’t it be even worse that he’d convinced her to have sex? He sort of understands experimenting. I mean, he’s thought about it. Hasn’t everyone?

But if she knew…which it sounds like she already did…

It’s all so complicated and confusing, because she did date men for the next year and a half.

He gets some texts from Kurt at around this time. Kurt apparently heard about Quinn and about Puck knowing and sent a couple of texts checking up on him, because, he claims, he “knows how important Quinn is to you.” Puck tries to brush him off at first, and _definitely_ makes sure he knows that Quinn is important to him mostly as Beth’s mother and as a friend, not as a love interest, but as Kurt persists, he does admit that he finds it weird that she’s gay after everything that happened. Kurt reminds him about his own dalliance with Brittany and tells Puck sometimes it’s harder for girls to figure it out for some reason, and Puck tries to take some comfort in that. And as Puck relays more of his conversation with Quinn, Kurt reassures him that her consenting, for whatever reasons she had, is really the most important thing, and Puck should rest easy knowing that.

Still, it feels so weird that something that meant so much to him at the time was just a part of Quinn’s journey of self-discovery to be filed under _Never Again_. He thinks maybe if it hadn’t been muddied by the alcohol and the baby, he might be honored by this one-of-a-kind role. As it stands, he just feels more uncomfortable than ever by the whole thing.

He really can’t dwell on it except when he’s trying to go to sleep. He’s far too busy at the diner during the day. Some nights he’s lucky enough to be so exhausted that sleep comes easily, but other times, he has trouble.

He thinks he likes working with Billy, the older cook who works daytime, best. Billy’s calm and mellow, and has sense enough to take over certain tasks when Puck is letting the pressure of a full dining room fluster him. Malcolm, the high school dropout night cook, is also a pretty cool guy, and it’s nice to work around somebody his own age, but Malcolm is not nearly as responsible as Billy, and they don’t work together nearly as smoothly. If the place gets packed, as it does almost every night around 6 o’clock, they’re both swearing and banging containers of food around in frustration.

During a slow mid morning, Puck is peeling potatoes to make homefries and Billy is chopping lettuce and tomato. He eyes Puck for a moment and then asks, “So, what’s your story?”

Puck glances at him and then shrugs, “Not much to it. Just got outta McKinley. I was gonna go to California, but it didn’t work out.”

“California?” Billy asks, his interest obviously piqued, “You ever been there?”

“Yeah,” Puck answers, “Drove out there over the summer with my best friend.” He smiles then, feeling a pang of longing for his connection with Finn. “We hit a couple of the major cities, though we couldn’t do much more than pass through. We even got to drive a stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway, it was incredible. We didn’t get to spend too much time there, it was part of a much bigger roadtrip, but man…I loved it. Loved everything I saw in that state.”

“How come you ain’t there now then?”

Puck shrugs and grunts, “Couldn’t leave my mom and sister yet. They need me.”

“Coulda sent them home money,” Billy offers.

Puck twists his mouth, “Well, maybe next year.”

“What did you want to go for, anyway?”

Puck hesitates, then, “It’s kinda stupid, but I was hoping to go there for music. You know. Put together a band, maybe find a record deal.”

Billy puts down his knife, “No shit. You play?”

“Guitar, yeah.”

Billy laughs, “Shit, me too,” he shakes his head jovially for a moment, “Actually, I first went out to California when I was barely older than you. For the same reason you wanna go.”

“Yeah?” Puck asks, interested.

“Yeah. Went with my band. See, I grew up not far from here, and the band I had? Well, we liked 60s and 70s rock and, ya know, we also listened to a lot of country. We were ‘Billy and the Werewolves,’” he grins nostalgically. “This was like 1983, so like, we got out there, and we were pretty good, ya know, but like a band that sounded kinda like Lynyrd Skynyrd or The Eagles? Nobody wanted that shit. They were looking for metal—hair metal was making a big splash at that time—or punk rock, or even synthesized goth shit.” He shakes his head, “We never got too far. There were some people interested, sure, probably because of our name, they figured we were more hardcore than we were, when really our name was because we dug Warren Zevon. Ya know, ‘Werewolves of London’?” he adds, at Puck’s blank look.

“Oh, right,” Puck nods.

“Yeah, so, but here’s the thing: we shoulda never given up. Cause even if we hadn’t hit the big time in our first year in Cali, we were doing what we loved, you know? We shoulda stayed out there and kept doing it, because we all came back around here, and, well, you see where I ended up. I love my wife, and thank god she waited for me here, and thank god she never found out about the women out west, and I like cooking just fine, but music, ya know. That was what I loved.”

“So, you’re saying…” Puck starts.

“I’m saying you get your ass to California and live how you want if you love it. I’m sure your mom and sister will be okay, and besides, you can’t live your life for somebody else. And ‘cause even if you never make music your career, you’ll sure as shit have more luck doing it there than here, and hey, at least you’ll be there. At least you won’t be _here_.” He points to the ground with his knife, then turns back to the cutting board to start on another tomato.

Puck keeps this in his head for several days, and finds it’s half-inspiring, half-terrifying. He remembers what Quinn said, back in the summer, about being afraid of him leaving in case Beth ever needed to find them, but…he wants to believe Beth could always find them if she needs. Besides, it’s not like either of them heard from Shelby since Sectionals of their Senior year—god, more than a year ago. He thinks about the money he’d need to get there, wishes he hadn’t used so much of his savings on that roadtrip with Finn…

He thinks about Finn, then, for the first time in awhile. Not that he’d forgotten about him, just that until now, every time he’d thought about him, he’d made himself think about something else. But now…he just misses his best friend. He remembers how he’d wanted Finn to move out to California with him, how he didn’t think he could do it alone.

And that’s really it, at the end of it all. He’s not sure he can leave Lima by himself.

A few days later later, he’s feeling alright because he’d sent Finn a message just saying hey and asking what was up, and it was _nice_ to talk a little bit, and he hasn’t been worrying nearly so much about Quinn, he’s just starting to feel _proud_ of her, for coming out to him. He’s mostly just thinking about what Billy said, and about leaving Lima. About not being a Lima Loser for the rest of his life.

He’s working with Malcolm tonight, and Billy and the boss, Georgie, both just left. Malcolm is just coming in the back door, where the employees park and he and Puck watch Billy drive off. Malcolm snorts, “The fuck is that? Cree-dance Clearwater?” He points at one of Billy’s bumper stickers.

“A band, I think,” Puck answers, “Probably one of those ones he was into back in the day.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes, “Aww, shit, he told you that story, didn’t he? About his damn band?” Malcolm stubs out his cigarette and spits on the asphalt as he closes the back door and they walk back toward the kitchen to deal with late lunch customers and to make sure everything’s ready for the dinner rush. “If that’s true, I’ll blow Georgie. Well, maybe not Georgie, he’d like it too much,” Malcolm laughs.

Puck laughs, too, even though he’s not sure it’s too funny to laugh at Georgie being gay (it would sure explain that wink he gave Puck when he hired him, not to mention a bunch of other little things…he really has pathetic gaydar). “Well, I dunno. It could be true.”

Malcolm shakes his head, “Man, I never figured you for a gullible guy. I mean, I’ve heard of you, of course, before you even got here, and you ain’t a fool. Don’t tell me all those excuses about how it ‘wasn’t the right time for Billy and the Werewolves’ got you,” he finishes, imitating Billy’s drawl toward the end.

Puck’s not sure what to say and finds himself thinking back on the conversation. _Had_ he been made a fool? He frowns. He had gotten a lot of inspiration out of that story, but…it had really been mostly about Billy, hadn’t it? About making Billy look cool?

At this moment, Puck feels pretty mad at his cooking mentor.

“I’m no fool,” he tells Malcolm with certainty, “I just thought I’d heard of his band, that’s all. Probably he stole some band name.”

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Malcolm mutters, and they get to work setting up for dinner.

Soon, it’s 3:30, smack dab in the middle of that stretch between about 2:30 and 4:30 when the place is damn near empty. Malcolm usually disappears around this time, Puck doesn’t know where, but sometimes he thinks he hears him talking near the back of the building.

He’s bored. Everything is pretty well set for the dinner rush; the vegetable sides are in the warmer drawers, the soups are heated and full in the dining room, the vegetables are chopped for salads, a few salads are prepared and covered with cling wrap in the fridge, and the special entrees are either prepared and in the warmers or ready to be slapped on the grill. He almost craves a cigarette…but tries not to give in. He only started smoking because otherwise he never got a break at the diner, and he’s trying to make sure he only smokes when he just really needs to get out of the kitchen for a few minutes.

But getting some fresh air can’t hurt. Even when it’s freezing out it usually feels better to stand for a bit outside in the cold in his short sleeves than in the boiling kitchen.

He peers out the window into the dining room, where the waitress, having finished all her tasks to prepare for dinner, is reading the newspaper. He catches her eye and mimes a cigarette, then pushes the call bell down the serving window toward her in case she needs him; she just nods and turns back to the paper.

As soon as he opens the back door, he hears hushed voices. He hesitates for just a moment, but as they die off, he figures he’d better just appear, and steps out into the chilly afternoon. He glances toward the sound of the voices and sees Malcolm, the night dishwasher Joey, and a guy he doesn’t know further down the back of the building near the dumpsters, staring at him.

“Who the fuck are you?” the strange guy asks.

“Don’t worry about it, he’s cool,” Malcolm approaches Puck, slinging an arm around him to drag him to the circle, “He used to deal for a bit back when I was in school.”

The new guy eyes Puck, then grins a bit, “Oh, Puckerman. I know you.”

“Sup?” Puck asks casually, still trying to piece together what’s happening. He still doesn’t recognize the man that seems to recognize him.

“Hey, actually, you want in on this?” Malcolm asks, and when Puck raises an eyebrow, Malcolm fishes out the little baggie of white powder, and another of weed.

Puck can’t believe he hadn’t realized, until now, what Malcolm was doing when he disappeared. But suddenly it made sense. How some nights, Malcolm and Joey were a lot harder to work with, a lot slower, a lot more confused.

Puck’s about to just refuse, when the new guy seems to interpret his expression and snaps, “Not to smoke, asshole. To sell. I think I know your neighborhood, I could use a guy there.” And then that comment about dealing makes sense, too. He had sold some weed Sophomore year (or, well, cupcakes laced with weed), when Quinn needed money. Or the Glee club needed money that he had intended to steal for Quinn, that was it. It was supposed to be subtle enough to be a secret ingredient, but apparently, some of the students had figured it out.

Puck can think of a thousand reasons to say no. He still lives with his _mother_. He doesn’t want his sister to find this stuff (and he _knows_ she snoops in his room). He’s already got a juvenile record, he can’t really afford to screw up as an adult.

But as he looks at that stuff, even though he’s discounted almost everything else Billy told him, all he can see is _my ticket outta Lima_.

 _My ticket to California_.

 

_If I only could, I’d make a deal with God_

 

She wakes up to a text that she has to read several times before she can really process it.

 

 **Q: This is going to sound dumb, but…can**  
**you meet me on Saturday afternoon? Pick**  
 **a place in Manhattan, I don’t care where,**  
 **as long as it’s near Grand Central. I can**  
 **be there around 3.**

 

Once she finally pieces together enough brainpower to decipher it, she’s a bit annoyed.

 

 **Tana: so lemme get this straight. you**  
**want me to wake up early on sat, which is**  
 **a nite I work I might add, and spend forty**  
 **minutes on the train coming to meet u in**  
 **the freezing cold and ur not even going to**  
 **tell me why**

 

 **Q: I’m the one jumping on the Metro**  
**North and back in an afternoon. I’ll buy**  
 **you a damn breakfast, okay? Just,**  
 **please? We need to talk and a phone call**  
 **won’t do it.**

 

She can almost see Quinn rolling her eyes in that text. But then…

 

**Tana: this is about Rachel isn’t it**

**Q: Among other things.**

 

Freaking cryptic Fabray.

 

**Tana: fine**

 

She turns over to maybe doze for a couple more minutes and is surprised hear her phone buzz again. But not nearly so surprised as when she reads it.

 

**Q: Thank you.**

 

Well. That’s not common.

The rest of the week passes rather quickly. After the conversations with Kurt and Rachel on Sunday about the revelation about Quinn, they don’t talk about it much more. Kurt seems ponderous and watches Rachel with much more interest and much less aversion than he has since she came out, and Rachel just seems blissfully proud of the new step her friendship with Quinn has taken. She’s a chipper person already, but now it’s to the point where if Santana is at all tired, she feels those old high school violent urges she used to get for Rachel come back full force.

By the middle of her Friday night shift, she’s thinking more about her meeting with Quinn. She reflects that the whole reason she wanted Quinn and Rachel to come out to each other was so that _she_ didn’t have to be in the middle of them anymore, and yet, first thing Rachel did was come to her, and now here’s Quinn, coming to her too. She tries not to be resentful of the fact that she’ll have to wake up early to meet Quinn on-time. She tries to care about what Quinn wants to talk about, when chances are, she just needs to process Rachel’s disclosure, which, come on, couldn’t they have done this over email or something?

By the time she’s bundled up and scowling waiting for her train, she’s mostly gotten over any frustrations she has with the meeting time, place and circumstances. She gets off the train, chooses one of the many nearby Starbucks, and texts Quinn her location.

She sees pretty quickly that this might not be the best idea, because the place is ridiculously packed. She gets in line to save their place and grabs Quinn when she comes in and then, reminding her of her promise, gets her to buy their coffee and pastries.

There is barely any seating, so they’re standing around in the crowd waiting for seats to open up awkwardly trying to hold their coffee and eat giant muffins without making a mess. When a table opens, Santana shoulders people out of the way to snag it and gestures to an embarrassed Quinn to join her.

“Much better,” Santana murmurs, fully unwrapping her muffin. She concentrates on eating for a good half a minute or so and notes that Quinn isn’t doing anything but watching her. She makes a “hurry up” gesture. “Well, spill. What was so important you had to drag me out here at what is like 7 in the morning for me?”

Quinn sighs and begins to pick at her muffin. “Well. Rachel.”

“Right,” Santana rolls her eyes.

“So you…you know, right? She said she talked to you and Kurt about it…”

“What, that she’s bisexual?” Santana asks, “Yeah. She told us.” A pause. “Uh. Speaking of Kurt…”

“I know,” Quinn answers in a short tone, “Rachel texted me right after it happened to apologize for letting it slip around him.” She glares at the table, “Just had to go chatting about my personal business. Is it really that big a deal?”

“He wasn’t supposed to be _home_ ,” Santana defends, “Besides, _yeah_ , it’s a big deal. It’s kind of unexpected. Of course, what Rachel didn’t realize is that Kurt figured out you have feelings for her.”

Quinn closes her eyes for a long moment as if praying. “Great. That’s great. Wonderful. Just what I need.”

“He’s not going to _tell_ anyone. He’s more respectful than that.”

Quinn laughs shortly, “Right. Respectful.”

Sighing, Santana says, “Ya know, at least Rachel was honest with you when it happened. In fact, said she was honest with you throughout the conversation where you both came out. So. Were you?”

Quinn glares, “You know I couldn’t be.”

“I _know_ that, but I mean…Did you tell her about Stephanie? I mean, I imagine she wanted to know if you’d kissed a girl yet.”

Silence. Then, “No.”

“No, she didn’t want to know, or no, you didn’t tell her?”

Quinn sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, “No…to both. I just…didn’t know how to tell her. She was telling me things, about how she had loved Finn and fooled around with that Jeremy guy…and I was trying to be careful about what I said. I didn’t want to reveal too much.”

“She’s all happy you guys are finally being honest with one another, and you’re not.”

“I _can’t_ be. I can _never_ be fully honest with her.” Quinn stares at her food. “I thought maybe I could be, someday. I was…elated. For a split second. Until she said she can’t fall in love with women. And then I knew, I’m a friend, but not one who can be honest with her, ever.”

“Yeah,” Santana replies. It’s hard to put much sympathy in her tone, because like, Quinn needs to _move on_.

“I didn’t even know Rachel’s kind of attraction was a _thing_ ,” Quinn continues mournfully.

“I didn’t really either, but look, you’ve got to _move on_. Rachel isn’t ever going to return your feelings.”

Quinn stares at Santana fiercely for a few seconds and then mutters, “It’s not that simple.”

“Hey. I’ve been here. It sucks, remember?”

“And you got the girl,” Quinn shoots back, “Because at least _Brittany_ is _legitimately_ bisexual.”

“Okay, yeah, I got like. _Really_ lucky. It could’ve gone the other way. I couldn’t made myself miserable sleeping with her for _years_ while she continued on loving whatever guy she was seeing and not me.”

“That’s better than nothing,” Quinn grumbles.

“Um, no. It’s awful. Listen, don’t make yourself miserable by trying to sleep with Rachel. She might not even go for it because, like, she’s all convinced she needs to be in love to hop in bed. Why not fool around with your roommate again?”

Quinn laughs bitterly, “Yeah, because I can totally see why sleeping with a _straight_ girl I don’t have feelings for is a better idea.”

“Aw, c’mon. She’s hot, and not having feelings is a _good_ thing when you’re just fooling around. Why do you think I fooled around with Puck so much?”

“Look, I’ve told you why anything with her is a bad idea. I had like a gay panic with her or something. I think I really hurt her, and things are finally going back to normal. At least, until she gets stressed and takes it out on me…”

“Well then, be her stress relief. Really, Q, it’s a win/win.”

“I just…can’t.”

“ _Are_ you attracted to her?”

A pink tinge appears on Quinn’s cheeks, “ _Yes_ , okay? I admit that Stephanie is really attractive, alright?”

“’Really attractive,’ right, that’s Quinn-speak for fucking hot, right? Seriously, it’s not 1950.”

“ _Yes_ , that’s what it means,” Quinn hisses.

Santana smirks then, “Man, she’s got a _rack_. So, like, does she come back into the room after showers in her towel? Do you sneak peeks?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Quinn bursts, “ _No_ , okay? Just stop.”

“Alright, alright,” she raises her hands in surrender, “But still. If you don’t want to sleep with Stephanie, find someone else. Don’t you go to, like, the gayest Ivy League? Just come out already and I’m _sure_ someone will try to tap that.”

Quinn bites her lip for a long moment, and then nods once, “Okay.”

Santana blinks, taken aback, “Okay?”

“Okay,” Quinn nods again. She shrugs when Santana still looks confused, “Coming out to Rachel was the hardest part. Considering I’m never coming out to my mother or other family, I’m not scared anymore by anyone else finding out.”

“That’s…that’s good.”

“Yeah,” Quinn nods, “So I’ll do that.” She sighs, hard. “I couldn’t get over Rachel when I thought she was straight. But, I could try harder.”

“It’s the best move. Trust me,” Santana encourages.

Quinn drops her eyes to her muffin and begins to halfheartedly munch on it, looking melancholy and withdrawn. Santana doesn’t want to watch so she concentrates on sipping her coffee, giving Quinn time to grieve a bit. She’s _so close_ to being able to have the girl of her dreams, yet so far. Santana feels terrible for her, so she gives her a good thirty seconds to brood before speaking.

“So, if that’s all, I’m gonna head home and drink more coffee so I can actually survive my work shift tonight.”

Quinn glares at her abruptly, “No. Are you an idiot? We could’ve had this conversation over the phone.”

“Well, _yeah_ , that did occur to me,” Santana snaps back, “Why didn’t we?”

“Because we have more to talk about?”

“Wonderful,” Santana gripes, “Go ahead, I’m all ears,” she continues sarcastically.

“We’re going to talk about you now,” Quinn replies severely.

“Great, my favorite topic!” Santana gives a mocking smile, “I’m hot, fantastic, and a great lay. What more is there to say? Discussion over.”

“Let’s talk about how depressed you are,” Quinn continues.

Santana falters, but only briefly, before forcing back that wicked smirk, “I think you’ve had one too many sessions with your therapist. Like, who are you, Tobias Funke? I’ve never been unhappy being me.”

“No. But you’re pretty unhappy with your life circumstances right now.”

Santana shrugs, “It’s really not a problem. I’m in New York.”

“Yeah. Doing what? Working a job you hate and being away from the girl you love.”

“Well, it’s not as though it’s going to be forever. It’s good for Britts and I to work this kind of thing out.”

“Yeah, but I can’t see how it’s worth making yourself miserable.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“You’re _not_. Don’t you see what’s happening here?”

“Oh clearly you know my life better than me. Go on. Enlighten me.”

“Alright. So, you had no idea what to do after high school. Understandable. Brittany got you into a school and a program you really didn’t want to do. Because you don’t love cheerleading, you love power. I get that. When you got money from your mom, you decided to go with Rachel to New York because it would be somewhere that wasn’t Lima and because you’d have someone there to help you out. Turns out, though, that she’s very busy with her own school, which makes you a little jealous, so you’ve immersed yourself in your work. Which you hate, yet are obsessed with. You’re obsessed with the money you’re making and how much you’re working and the way your schedule limits your ability to go out into the city and meet people. You’re also obsessed with Brittany, and her doing well, and her coming to join you here. So you basically chose and keep a job that you’re not all that attached to because, what if Brittany decides not to come to New York? You want to be in a situation where you can just leave, no consequences, to follow her. Basically, you’re living your life for Brittany, waiting for her to make decisions for you.”

Santana doesn’t have anything to say for a long moment before she scoffs, “That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not. This is _exactly_ what you’re doing.”

“Look, I’m not _jealous_ of Rachel or obsessed with my work. I’m worried about making enough to live here. And I want Brittany to be able to make good choices about her future.”

“What about _your_ future?”

“What about it? I can decide what I want to do later.”

“This is _exactly_ the problem. You’re not living your own life!”

“Sometimes when you love someone, you make some minor sacrifices for them. Maybe I’m making a few for Brittany, and what of it? If you’d ever dated someone you were actually in _love_ with, maybe you’d understand.”

Quinn scowls, “That was a really low blow, but this isn’t _about_ me. You’re too young to put your life on hold for someone else. All the evidence suggests that high school sweethearts don’t end up together. What happens if you and Brittany break up? How are you going to look back on this year?”

“We’re not _going_ to break up,” Santana hisses, “I’ve loved this girl since I was too young to even know what those feelings meant, and she feels the same. I’ve heard the same things you have, and I have faith in Britts and I. We’re gonna make it.”

Quinn shrugs, “Well, if you do, I suppose it could be worth it. But what if you don’t? Or what if Brittany gets into a school in the middle of nowhere, and you follow her, and you hate it? Maybe you should have a backup plan.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“I’m talking about applying for school, now. If Brittany comes here, great. If she doesn’t…for whatever reason…you should go anyway.”

“And, what, spend the next four years apart while we go to schools in different cities? No thanks.”

“Damn it, Santana, this is important! The longer you wait to apply, the less likely it is you’ll even go back. Do you really want to work retail for the rest of your life?”

“Of course I don’t, but if Britts needs me to support her, I’ll do it for as long as I have to.”

“And then you’ll have to take the SATs again, because your scores will have expired, and you’ll never want to go through that again. You should keep those scores anyway, I remember they were good.”

“I _really_ didn’t come here today for a meeting with Ms. Pillsbury. Or, _god_ , Mrs. Schuester, whatever.”

As if on cue, Quinn opens her bag and takes out a manila folder. “Here. This has admissions information for a lot of local schools.”

“I don’t care!” Santana snaps, “Just let me do what I need to do to keep Brittany happy, okay? Let me make my own goddamn choices.”

Quinn sits stoically for a few moments, then replies, “I will be happy to help you apply to whatever schools you want if you change your mind. And I really think you should. You’re _not_ happy. The things you’re doing, _for_ Brittany? They will tear you guys apart if you stay this miserable.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Santana insists again.

Nodding, Quinn says gently, “Sometimes, you have to be brave enough to ask for help. And if you ask me, I will.”

“Whatever, are we done here?” Santana finally asks.

“Sure,” Quinn nods.

Santana doesn’t move. She doesn’t feel like moving, and she finally bursts, “I just want to bang it through your skull that I’m not doing anything I don’t want to be doing.”

“Alright,” Quinn shrugs. Santana just nods for a few moments in response, and finally Quinn continues, “Do you know what I used to say to myself when I would go running?”

“What?” Santana asks, caught off guard.

“When I went running, I used to tell myself, ‘I can beat this,’ with every stride.”

“Okay…” Santana trails off, “Thanks for the Fun Facts to Know and Learn about Quinn Fabray. I’ll remember it forever.”

Quinn is irritatingly unfazed. “For a long time, it was just about my weight, and about beating the things my old self wanted—laziness, and too much sugar. But then, from about Junior year onward…it was about how depressed I was. I ran not even really because I was taking baby weight off, although that was part of it. I ran because I kept hoping and praying that it would make me feel better. And because it was something I could do _myself_ , without having to tell anyone how I was feeling.”

Santana just listens then, her hackles lowering slightly, and thinks back to that year and eventually to how Quinn broke down in New York during Nationals. At the time, she hadn’t even realized how long those feelings were building up in Quinn, and how bad they were. She thought it mostly had to do with breaking up with Finn, and a haircut/makeover seemed like good therapy at the time. Of course, she had a hunch that it was more than that when Quinn avoided her all summer to hang with the Skanks, but…the idea that it had lasted over a year, since Beth’s birth, is new for her.

“You and I are a lot alike,” Quinn continues, “We’re both stubborn and proud. I hated to ask for help, that’s why I spent so long trying to making running into the cure for my postpartum depression. It helped some, but it didn’t work. But when Rachel told me I was a better person than I realized…when Rachel showed me that taking Beth from the only mother she’d ever known would be a mistake…I knew then that I really needed more help than I could give myself. Rachel forcing her help onto me was what got me there. Which is why I tried the same with you.”

“Well, I don’t need it.”

Nodding again, Quinn asks in a clear, low voice, “So when I tell you that what I see is you going to New York so that Brittany won’t feel like she’s holding you back, then getting a job you can abandon without consequence, just so you can follow Brittany anywhere, then ask if you’re putting your _life_ on hold for Brittany, you would tell me that you’re not.”

The words are gentle, and perhaps that’s why this time, they finally hit Santana like a kick to the chest. She’d been avoiding thinking about her plans and goals, just believing that this was the _place_ she wanted to be, and that she wanted to invest as much as she could into her relationship with Brittany. She hadn’t felt it as something she was doing _wrong_ until Quinn said something.

But it _isn’t_ wrong. It’s _love_.

“My life isn’t on hold. My life is just open to Brittany’s future.”

“Right. Okay,” Quinn shrugs.

“Is _that_ it?” Santana asks, now studying her nails.

“Sure,” Quinn shrugs.

“Okay. Bye,” Santana pulls on her coat. Quinn just stays sitting, watching her leave.

She’s scowling so hard her forehead hurts. It’s not as though being away from Brittany is a goddamn cakewalk, but she thought she was doing what was right for both of them, ensuring Brittany can succeed by not being a distraction. Hearing how Quinn sees it, though, makes her question _everything_.

Goddamn Quinn Fabray.

 

_Grow pretty long lashes and beards_

 

It’s frustrating, that the conversation with Santana didn’t amount to what she had hoped.

She’s not really sure _what_ she’d hoped for. She doesn’t think she expected Santana to break down in front of her and cry about how miserable she is or anything. But she was expecting to break through Santana’s stubbornness, at least a little.

Somehow, that bitch is even more stubborn than _she_ is.

Still, one good thing she gleaned from their conversation was Santana’s advice to just come out fully at school, start looking for new prospects. That is actually a decent idea, Quinn begrudgingly admits, and she finds she is _nervous_ about doing it, but kind of excited too. It’s not the throat-blocking nervousness that happened when she was telling Zizes, thankfully. Not the nervousness that made her inexplicably fear for her safety as she tried to tell those she cared about.

So at dinner that night with Stephanie, Steve, Sean, and Lucas, she just goes for it. “I’ve been thinking about joining one of the gay organizations on campus.”

She tries to take in everyone’s reactions while keeping her face casual. Sean’s eyebrows just rise, which makes sense, as he thought he was sworn to tight secrecy. Steve looks vaguely intrigued, Stephanie perplexed. A slow smirk is spreading across Lucas’s face.

“I _knew_ it,” Lucas murmurs.

Quinn just ignores his comment and turns to him, “What can you tell me about them?”

Lucas looks a little surprised, “Well, I don’t know. I’m not really one to join clubs like that.” He waves a hand dismissively, “I mean, I’ve tried, but it always seems to me that like, the club is run by lesbians who are super gung-ho about all the political issues and trying to make a change without admitting that they really don’t have the clout or power to make any change, and their efforts are stymied by the gay dudes who are just trying to hook up with each other, and then there are the straights who are just kind of there and think they deserve a medal just for joining and believing in our equality. And I mean, Yale itself is not a campus that needs a ton of change. I mean, we’ve got a lot of gender-neutral bathrooms and such. I think the organization here has its sights set on national change, which is just silly to me.”

Quinn frowns, “They can’t all be the same.”

Lucas shrugs again, “See for yourself. I hear there’s one that meets…Wednesdays, I think? You could look it up easily.”

“I take it you won’t come with me?”

Lucas chuckles, “Nah. It just gives me too much secondhand embarrassment.”

As they’re walking back up to their rooms, Sean hangs back just enough to murmur to Quinn, “If you want, I’ll come with you to the gay meeting. You know, as your ally.”

“Sean, that’s so sweet, but you don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind,” he shrugs, “I mean, I barely know anything about the issues, just how I feel about gay people being equal. I don’t even know what Lucas means about gender-neutral bathrooms.”

“That’s…a trans issue. I think,” Quinn frowns thoughtfully, “But…yeah, if you want to come with me, that’d be great.”

Sean nods, smiles briefly, and says, “Just let me know when, and we’ll head over together.”

Come Wednesday, they’re walking over to the meeting together. The air is blessedly still this evening, just frigid, no wind. It hasn’t snowed lately, so most of the snow on the ground is old, crusted over with a layer of ice, or tramped down into muddy slush by students taking shortcuts all over campus. Quinn hopes fervently that spring comes early like the groundhog predicted; she’s tired of being cold.

They can tell which room the meeting will be in by the lively voices before they even get close. Everyone is clearly socializing before the meeting gets underway, and as Quinn and Sean step in, there’s a moment’s palpable lull as everyone regards them curiously, until a guy in a tight-fitting sweater calls, “Welcome!” in greeting, and everyone continues their conversations normally.

She and Sean survey the room quickly. It’s pretty large, with chairs arranged in a circle. Should make the meeting feel very inclusive, Quinn muses. There’s a snack table in the back of the room, where almost everyone else is standing and talking. She looks at Sean and shrugs. She doesn’t particularly want to approach the people who are clearly already conversing, and by her watch, the meeting should start in a few minutes. So she just takes a seat and Sean sits beside her.

It takes almost ten minutes for the meeting to finally start, because everyone seems to not want to stop chatting with friends to actually get it underway. Quinn and Sean just sort of sit awkwardly and talk about movies. A few times as the meeting start gets pushed back more and more, Quinn thinks about leaving. This is just _awkward_ , and no one is talking to them. She feels more like an outsider than ever, but, as she thinks about it, she knows she can easily pass for straight. Maybe they see her and Sean as the straight interlopers—maybe even a _couple_ —that Lucas talked about, the ones who want credit just for showing up.

When the meeting is finally called to order, Quinn sees that it’s the tight-sweater guy who is president. He calls the meeting to order lazily, and then his vice-president, a girl with a choppy, uneven haircut, seems to take over.

First, she looks at Quinn and Sean and smiles tightly, “Looks like we have some new faces here tonight. Why don’t you introduce yourselves?”

Quinn takes a breath to steel her nerves and says, “My name is Quinn, and I’m…a lesbian.”

After the briefest silence, a simpering male voice cuts in with, “Girl, this ain’t Gays Anonymous,” and it’s followed by a round of laughter. Quinn blushes. Saying it to a group of near strangers had felt _so good_ , she’d felt a rush of relief. But now she just feels foolish.

Beside her, Sean waits for the laughter to die down before just saying, “I’m Sean,” and, either because of her getting laughed at or because he figures his heterosexuality is obvious, doesn’t elaborate.

“Glad you both could join us,” the vice-president smiles, and Quinn notes it’s a bit warmer. Quinn tries to hold her head high after being laughed at, and notes that she is receiving more attention than when they first walked in. Meanwhile, the club’s officers are introducing themselves to Quinn and Sean, but Quinn is having trouble paying attention.

The vice-president talks about an upcoming event in which they’re raising money to march in Washington DC for the DOMA case. They’re selling t-shirts, buttons, rainbow lollipops and other things as well as canvassing the campus asking for donations. Their faculty advisor got together a few other friends who agreed to match half of all the money they raise. So the vice-president is handing out order forms, and passing around sign-up sheets to get people to man tables at a couple of different dining halls. Quinn isn’t feeling much up for doing any of this. She thinks it’s great that they want to go, but she can’t help thinking about Lucas’s words, that they don’t have the power to make any change. Besides, if she marched in Washington with them, there was always the chance she’d be photographed, and her mother would see…so, she doesn’t want to go, and therefore doesn’t feel much like helping to fund the trip.

To her surprise, though, Sean signs up when she passes the paper to him.

After this order of business, the topic changes to an event the College Republicans are planning, and as they discuss how they can peacefully counter the event, the meeting sort of devolves into chaos. Even as they were discussing funding their trip to D.C., there had been a myriad of snarky comments and laughs interrupting the vice-president, as well as obvious inside jokes, but now, this seems to become the whole meeting. No one really offers any constructive options except a few half-hearted offers to make pamphlets to hand out. In the middle of it all, Quinn hears a few disparaging remarks about “Christians,” which just makes her cringe.

By the time the meeting is over, Quinn is definitely ready to go. She doesn’t know whether it’s because of what Lucas said, maybe she went in with low expectations, maybe they just weren’t having a particularly interesting meeting, or maybe she’s just too _green_ at being gay to be ready to be part of such a thing. But either way, she’s pretty sure she won’t be coming back.

As she and Sean stand up to leave, though, she’s approached by the club’s secretary, a girl with shoulder length brown hair. She smiles at them, and says, “I just wanted to get your full information so I can put you on the club roster.”

“Sure,” Sean offers, then answers all her questions. He glances between Quinn and the girl, and says, “I’m going to hit the bathroom, I’ll meet you at the exit,” nods to Quinn, and walks away.

Quinn watches him go, and turns back to the girl. She smiles slightly, “I’m not sure I want to join.”

Her face twists slightly, “I was afraid of that. Don’t take Richie’s sassy-ass comments too seriously. No one was really laughing _at_ you.”

“No, it wasn’t really that,” Quinn mutters, “I don’t regret saying it, I know I can look straight, and I need practice coming out. I think I’m just not ready to be this publicly _gay_. I want to be out, but…not political. Not yet.”

The girl smiles sadly, “I get it. Well, there are other organizations within the GLBT community here. Perhaps I can send you some information about the more social gatherings? That might be more your style.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Quinn answers skittishly.

“Honey,” the girl leans forward with a smile, “I’m just trying to get your number.”

“O-oh,” Quinn stutters, “Um. Okay then.” She then proceeds to give the girl her information, but as she walks away, she is immensely relieved.

Sean is waiting for her at the building’s exit. He smirks momentarily when he sees her, “So, how’d it go?”

“What do you mean?”

He chuckles briefly, “She was checking you out for half the meeting. I figured you got her number after I walked away.”

“She got mine,” Quinn mumbles.

“Yeah?” Sean is smiling a little, more than his stoic features usually allow.

“I dunno, though,” Quinn frowns, “I wasn’t too into it. The meeting, I mean.”

“I didn’t think so,” Sean nodded, “Because it reminded you of what Lucas said?”

“Maybe that was part of it. I don’t know. I just don’t think I can be so political yet. I need to figure out how this fits into my life personally first. Hell, maybe I _was_ hoping it would be a bit more like Gays Anonymous.”

“I understand. But the evening wasn’t a total waste. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from Hope.”

“I guess,” Quinn shrugs, thinking, _Oh, that was her name_ …

“Not your type?” Sean asks.

Quinn hesitates, “I’m not sure what my type _is_. I’m just not sure I clicked with her.”

“You can always find out.”

“Yeah,” Quinn changes the subject, “How about you? It sounds like you’re into it.”

Sean shrugs, “I am, I guess. I want to try to make a difference. I know that Lucas doesn’t think a group this small and collegiate can, but I figure, every voice helps.”

“That’s great,” Quinn smiles, “And I’m sure it has nothing to do with wanting to impress the bi girls there?”

Sean laughs, “Hey, it wouldn’t hurt. But really, it’s about doing what’s right.”

Quinn just keeps smiling as they walk back to their dorm together.

The next evening at dinner, everyone is there, including Lulu and Rob this time. Once they’ve all sat down with their food, Lucas gives Quinn his twinkly-eyed smile, “So? How did it go last night?”

“The GLBT club meeting?” For the first time, Quinn wishes she didn’t agree with Lucas on this. She _likes_ disagreeing with him. He’s a nice enough guy, but she just likes conflicting with him. So, she shrugs, “Eh.”

“I didn’t know you were thinking about joining them,” Rob cuts in cheerfully, “I always wanted to, but it never really fit into my schedule except for one semester. They’re a nice group. Silly and chatty sometimes, but nice.”

“They’re alright,” Quinn agrees. She notes that Lulu doesn’t look at all surprised by the conversation. She hadn’t thought to mention it to Lulu after their seminar together on Monday, but someone probably told her about Quinn essentially coming out. “I’m not sure it’s my thing. I’m not sure I want to be a political gay.”

The fact that there’s almost no reaction around the table as she drives a verbal stake through the heart of any of her remaining supposed heterosexuality is nice. The closest thing to a reaction she gets is a twitch from Stephanie.

“That’s reasonable,” Lucas shrugs, “Good on people who want that sort of thing, but it’s not for me. The gay political machine right now is all about same-sex marriage, and yeah, it’d be nice, but it’s not my priority in life yet, so…”

“I think I’m going to join,” Sean announces, cutting off Lucas before he can go into a spiel about what the national gay rights organizations _should_ be focused on.

“Yeah?” Lucas looks mildly surprised, “Hope you’re ready to be a second-class citizen in the club as a straight ally.”

“You won’t be, good on you,” Rob reassures Sean, who looks completely unperturbed anyway, while Lulu nods, shooting a mildly disapproving glare at Lucas.

For her part, Quinn is happy to again find something she disagrees with Lucas on. Straight allies aren’t annoying at all.

She wishes more of them had been as overt as Sean in Ohio.

 

_I’ve carried your fears and your hopes, father_

 

He’s had a lot of training, a lot of discipline, and now his orders have finally come.

The good thing is, he thinks, he’s not being sent to the Middle East, to the place that crushed his dad’s spirit.

The bad news is, he’s being sent to Korea.

He knows it’s a bad place. He’s pretty sure the US fought a war there once—the one the hippies got so upset about, maybe? Either way, he knows a lot of soldiers came back damaged afterwards, and that scares him.

But his superiors are proud of him and his accomplishments. He’s one of their best mechanics, and they’d continued to train him until they deemed him skilled enough to work on almost anything.

And now, they need him in Korea.

He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. He’s home, for now. Burt is in Washington, but is hoping to be home the weekend before Finn leaves, and his mother is making him all his favorite foods. Sam is rather busy, and doesn’t seem all that perturbed by Finn’s imminent departure, just tells him, “I’m proud of you, man.”

A call to Kurt produces similar results.

“South Korea, I presume?” Kurt asks.

“Uh. I think so? Whatever the good Korea is.”

Kurt makes a thoughtful grunt. “This is what you’ve trained for. Aren’t you excited?”

“No. I mean. Not really. They want me there to…work on planes, mostly. There’s a lot of aircraft there. I really prefer working on land vehicles, but…”

“Still, it’s good practice.”

“I guess. It’s just. Kurt, one mistake and the whole plane goes down and everyone in it dies.”

“It’s…that way with a lot of things, actually.”

“I know, but…I’m such a screw-up. I make a _lot_ of mistakes.”

“That’s why you _practice_ , Finn. Did you make a lot of football mistakes? Did you make a lot of singing mistakes? Are you making a lot of mechanical mistakes now?”

“No, but—”

“You made mistakes with people because they’re not machines. We’re a lot more complex, and it takes a lot more mistakes to figure out how we work. You’re lucky enough that most people in your life have been nice to you. That’s why you made a lot of mistakes. Hell, we all did, really. But you know machines. Trust yourself. You’re going to do fine.”

It makes sense, but…Finn’s not convinced. It’s not just people he made mistakes with. He used to do really bad in his classes, too, even math class, which is what everyone says is most related to machines.

The other week, Puck had sent him a message asking him how he was. He hadn’t gotten his orders yet, so he wasn’t worried at that time, just enthusiastic and really, really glad to hear from his best friend. So now, he arranges to meet Puck to talk.

The first thing he notices when he gets to Puck’s house is that he seems really skittish. He barely opens the front door, ushers Finn in quickly. Maybe it’s just because it’s cold, though. The second weird thing is that he doesn’t let Finn up into his room. Instead, they settle on the sofa in the living room. Puck offers him a beer, which Finn declines. He’s not sure he’ll be staying long enough before he has to drive home. Besides, if he’s caught, that could be big trouble for his military career. So Puck brings him a Coke and one for himself.

“How’ve you been?” Finn asks.

Puck shrugs and stays quiet for a few moments. “Alright,” he grunts, “Work is weird, but we’re busy, which is always good.”

“Weird?”

“Yeah. The other cooks are both kind of assholes and my boss is a perv. What can ya do,” he twists his mouth in a forced half-grin.

“Oh,” Finn answers, “That kind of sucks.”

Puck peers at him. His eyes are a little bleary; Finn wonders when he last slept. “How about you, man? It’s good to see you. You look, like, all kinds of fit. Even Beiste never whipped you into this kind of shape.”

Finn chuckles, “It’s been good for the most part. I dunno. I just got my deployment orders.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Couple weeks.”

“Shit, man,” Puck takes a noisy slurp of soda, “That’s crazy. You only just got home.”

 _And you only just decided you want to talk to me again_ , Finn thinks, but he doesn’t say it. It hurt, but he gets why Puck needed to be mad at him for a little while. So far, he’s just immensely relieved that things feel pretty normal between them, despite Puck acting all weird for a bit there.

“I’m scared,” Finn admits abruptly.

The sentence hangs in the air tangibly for several long seconds.

Finn takes a breath. “I figured I could tell you because…ya know…you told me once about how you were scared to go to California by yourself.”

Puck sighs, “Yeah. I still am a little but I want to go. Why are you scared?”

“They’re sending me to Korea. The…the good Korea, whichever one that is.”

Puck’s eyes widen a bit, “Shit, man.”

“You understand?”

“Sure,” Puck nods, “I wouldn’t want to go there. You couldn’t pay me. Everybody at work is always gossiping, and a bunch of the old guys who hang around half the day talk about how war is about to break out there. I can hear them all the way back in the kitchen, they get so heated. It’s a scary part of the world.”

Finn sags back, “I’m supposed to be working on planes, so…I don’t know. If something happened, I don’t know whether I’d be made to fight or not.”

“Listen, bro,” Puck says, “You’re my best friend. You haven’t always been the bravest guy, sometimes you made the choice that was easy for you. But there _isn’t_ a choice here. You’re going. The only question now is whether you’re gonna go as the guy I know you can be, or the guy I’m being right now.”

Finn stares at him, “What do you mean? How are you being?”

Puck shrugs sullenly again, “I’m not a coward at heart, but I’m being one right now. So. Go be you, not me.”

Try as he might, Finn can’t get any more information out of Puck, but Puck does offer a few more words of encouragement. Reminds Finn he was Quarterback and Glee Club Co-Captain because he was brave and a great leader, which…it’s nice to hear, someone thinks those things about him. They feel like they don’t matter nearly so much now.

Puck’s been by his side for as long as he can remember. Through their ups and downs, Puck has almost always thought the best of him.

Finn borrows some of that courage and faith from his best friend to head over to the other side of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Hole, “Heaven Tonight,” DeVotchKa, “We’re Leaving,” Kate Bush, “Running Up That Hill,” Purity Ring, “Crawlersout,” Niki & The Dove, “The Fox.”
> 
> The band name “Billy and the Werewolves” is a Dresden Files reference.
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, Stephanie took things a bit further than Quinn was prepared for, things were weird, but improving  
> Steve: Stephanie's ex-boyfriend, also a Yale student, not doing well in classes  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, one of Quinn's closer Yale friends, she came out to him  
> Lulu: Quinn's Yale friend, takes the Feminism seminar with her  
> Rob: Quinn's Yale friend, Stephanie's advisor at the radio station, gay ally  
> Lucas: Gay classmate of Quinn's, irritates Quinn because he sucks up, seems to sense Quinn is gay  
> Jeremy: Male lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hook up at Gretchen's party  
> Georgie: Puck's boss, who owns the restaurant, mostly hangs out in the back  
> Billy: Puck's coworker, about his mom's age, fellow cook at the diner  
> Malcolm: Puck's coworker, fellow cook at the diner, his age, high school dropout  
> Joey: Introduced this chapter


	35. I would shiver the whole night through

_I would shiver the whole night through_

 

The call comes in at a little before three in the afternoon. In pure annoyance, she nearly decides not to answer the call at all (it doesn’t feel like it’s time to wake up, all she knows is that she’s being woken up out of deep sleep), but curiosity drives her to at least check who it is from.

The fact that it’s her father snaps her brain into gear a little bit, and she answers with a groggy, “Hi, Dad.”

“Santana,” he greets, his voice as steady and serious as always, “I’m calling because I have important news.”

“Right,” she clears her throat. That much is obvious to her. He’s not the type of person to just call to chat. They don’t really _talk_.

“It’s about your _abuela_ ,” he continues in that same calm tone, and though he’s managed to keep any strain out of his voice, just that _word_ sends chills down Santana’s spine. He calls his mother Santana’s Grandmama. Dr. Lopez does not speak Spanish. Not at home or to his family, at any rate, only sometimes with patients. Even in Santana’s youth, when she’d hear him argue with his mother, who would shout in Spanish, he’d reply in English.

“Oh, god,” Santana gasps.

“She’s in the hospital. Severe stomach pain, she refused to go to the hospital until she collapsed. Luckily, your mother was coming by with some groceries she’d asked for and found her before too long.”

“How…is she going to…?”

“They’re doing the best they can. They don’t know anything for sure yet, and unless they can figure it out, her prognosis isn’t great. Her health has declined kind of rapidly in the past year or so.”

“Okay,” Santana says quietly. She has no idea what else to say. What _can_ she say about the news that someone she loves dearly is dying?

“I know she hasn’t been talking to you,” Dr. Lopez says, and his voice is more gentle, less clinical, “But she asked about you, just now. I think…I think she knows that if she didn’t see you once more before dying, she would regret it.”

“You…think she’ll see me?”

“I don’t know for certain, but I think so. My mother is a stubborn woman, but I know she loved you.” Santana winces. His use of past tense can be taken two ways, and both are infinitely painful.

“I’ll leave right now. I’ll drive.”

“If you need money for gas, we can help you.”

“I should have enough to get there.”

“Okay. We’ll help you out for the travel and time off work.” He sounds like some kind of goddamn HR rep and Santana wants to scream at him for being so detached.

“Thanks. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

“Safe travels. Goodbye, sweetheart.” The words sound completely unnatural to Santana’s ear, and as soon as she hangs up, she’s sobbing.

Once she’s composed herself, she calls work and tells them she has a family emergency and needs a few days off. They tell her in a bored tone that that’s certainly fine and that they hope everything is okay. She had called ready for a fight, really. Ready to scream at someone who told her they needed her. But of course, this is a dayside manager she’s speaking to. He doesn’t have a clue who she is and he doesn’t care whether she shows up tonight at all.

She exits the bedroom to find the apartment blessedly empty, which is good. She doesn’t think she can handle Kurt or Rachel’s hugs or sympathy right now. She just scrawls a quick note (“Grandmother in the hospital. Back to Lima for a few days. Don’t worry. –S”) and leaves it on the counter.

She spends about twenty minutes sobbing in the shower again before really feeling like she can pull herself together enough to drive home. Her stomach is queasy, but she forces down a piece of toast and half a cup of coffee, filling a travel thermos with the rest of what she’s brewed. Then, she’s haphazardly packing her Cheerios duffle with a couple day’s worth of clothes and, hesitating, includes a black dress, just in case. She slips on jeans—an old pair of Kurt’s actually men’s skinny jeans that he was going to throw out, but that it turned out fit her well enough—and a t-shirt with a tabby cat on it. She slips on her leather jacket and takes out her phone to call Brittany.

Brittany actually answers—Santana checks the time, she’s probably just finished Cheerios by now—and Brittany’s voice is a little chilly as she greets Santana.

“My _abeula_ is in the hospital,” Santana begins without pretense. “I...I’m about to head back to Lima.”

“Come stay with me,” Brittany offers immediately, “Oh, San…”

“Thanks,” Santana swallows. It’s exactly what she’d hoped for, “I really need you right now.”

“I know,” Brittany’s voice is soft again, “I know you do. I’ll take care of you. But you have to get here first. Are you driving?”

“Yeah.”

“Be safe. Be _careful_.”

“I will. Thanks, Britt-Britt. I’ll be there around maybe 3am.”

“Okay,” Brittany sounds a little surprised; perhaps she forgot how long this drive really is. “I’ll tell my parents you’ll be coming. Just call when you’re close, I’ll let you in.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Always. See you soon.”

The air outside is cold, the sun just present as some light struggling through swaths of cloud on the horizon. Her leather jacket isn’t nearly enough to keep her warm as she walks to her car, but she lets the cold seep into her, lets it energize her as she begins her trip to Lima.

Getting out of the city at this time of day takes time, but at least it’s not an hour or two later when it gets even worse, so she grits her teeth and follows traffic until the choking line of cars clogging the streets begin to thin out and everyone can actually drive the speed limit again. She’s trying to listen to music that will keep her spirits up, that will help her stay awake. She doesn’t have the heat on full blast, and feels the cool leather creaking tight against her arms as she moves them. All measures, in addition to her thermos of coffee, meant to keep her awake, and focused on driving. She’s never driven this far on her own before.

It’s dark within a few hours and she’s driving through a rural highway in Pennsylvania, surrounded by the skeletal limbs of trees, passing trucks and joining clusters of cars around towns. And as she keeps driving, her speed rising as her mind closes off, she blanks out almost everything except the road beneath her and the darkness around her.

She knows she stops for gas a few times, and for Taco Bell another (what would her _abuela_ say if she saw Santana eating that Crunchwrap Supreme, she doesn’t want to imagine), but for some reason, the only album she can really remember listening to during this trip is Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way,” and it starts to feel like “Highway Unicorn” and “Heavy Metal Lover” are just on repeat through her entire journey, just dark, metal-inspired thrums echoing the tires on the asphalt.

She makes good time. She must’ve been driving faster than she realized, because it’s a little after two in the morning when she pulls into Brittany’s driveway, dialing Brittany’s number.

Brittany answers and lets her in, grabbing her duffel bag from her and sliding her out from her coat. Santana shivers at its loss, despite the warmth inside Brittany’s house, and Brittany guides her upstairs, strips her, and just holds her. Santana wants to have sex, wants to _do_ something to make her stop thinking about her grandmother, lying in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of her, wants to stop the images she now can’t distract herself from with music and night highways. But Brittany grabs her wandering hands and kisses them and just holds her, until she’s sobbing weakly against her chest.

 

_Let me freeze again to death_

 

She realizes she forgot to even tell her parents her plan when her phone wakes her up around seven in the morning, while she’s still curled into Brittany’s chest. She jolts awake and answers her mother’s call. Her mother thanks God in rambley Spanish prayer that Santana is alright and tells her that her _abuela_ is going into surgery that afternoon, and suggests maybe Santana would want to see her beforehand.

“They think she’ll be alright after surgery, but, with someone her age and in her condition, they can’t be sure.”

“Right. Okay. I’ll be there soon.”

“Visiting hours start at 9am, but I’m sure if you’re there sooner, they can let you in.”

“Right, okay.” She hangs up, and looks down at Brittany, who is still curled up and rubbing at her eyes sleepily.

“Want me to come with you?” Brittany asks groggily.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

She shrugs, “I have to take care of you. They’ll understand.”

Santana frowns, but shrugs. All in all, it isn’t a big deal for Brittany to miss a few days. “Do you…want to come with me?”

Brittany nods fervently, “Yeah. I want to help.”

Another hesitation, “Okay. But…you probably shouldn’t actually _see_ her.” Brittany frowns a little, tries to protest, and Santana continues, “I know you know her, and have known her for so much of your life. I know you love her, almost as much as I do. But I’m afraid if she sees us…together…if she sees the _evidence_ of why she never wanted to see me again…that she won’t talk to me.”

Brittany stares at her hands for a moment before nodding, “I understand. I’m more concerned about you anyway. Plus I’m still mad at her for hurting you.”

And that was Brittany. She could be the queen of holding grudges if she had reason to.

After some quick showers and breakfast that Santana can barely choke down, Brittany drives them over in her little champagne-colored car. She insists on driving, and Santana isn’t much in the mood to argue. It’s around 9 when they make it there, which is just as well. Easier than pulling the “My dad is Dr. Lopez, let me through” card.

Not that Santana’s dad has huge amounts of clout or anything. He is a good doctor, and most people know and respect him, but it isn’t like he owns the hospital or anything. Still, she could probably use it if she wanted to.

They find out where Santana’s _abuela_ is from a sad-eyed nurse. Santana takes a deep breath, and Brittany squeezes her hand. She reminds herself that all her grandmother wanted for her was to never be afraid, and so she straightens, and stands tall as she walks into the room.

She deflates almost immediately. It’s one thing to know someone is in the hospital and to imagine it. It’s another to see it. It’s somehow always worse than imagination. She reflects that maybe it’s a _good_ thing she was never allowed to see Quinn in the hospital after her accident. If Quinn’s broken body could look worse than it did in her mind…

Her grandmother is not a very old woman. She’d been vibrant and volatile the last time Santana saw her. But within a year’s time, she seems to have aged a decade or more. Which means, she looks a little closer to her actual age, since in Santana’s experience, adult women of color always seem to look ten years younger than they are; she’s seen it in her family, at her work, everywhere. Her grandmother’s hair has thinned, her body slimmed to the point of emaciation. She can see the knobs in her wrists, the bones extending up her forearms. Her eyes are sunken, her facial features obscured by sagging, wrinkled skin. Her belly, though, is distended weirdly, in a way that makes Santana’s own belly churn unpleasantly. And there are tubes. All over. Like they aren’t sure which organ is in danger of failing.

Her grandmother opens hawkish eyes and it’s only then that Santana can really be sure that it’s her. Alma Lopez is clearly exhausted, clearly in pain, clearly somewhat drugged, but her eyes hold Santana in sharp focus. Her lips move. “Garbage Face,” she manages to croak in Spanish.

Santana breaks into a smile and sucks in a breath. This isn’t something that should make _anyone_ smile, but she understands. It’s the beginning of a peace offering, because when it comes down to it, this is her childhood nickname. She had only been exaggerating a little bit when she’d said she didn’t know her name _wasn’t_ Garbage Face until kindergarten. Santana had always been a strong-willed child, and her grandmother a proponent of tough love. Anyone looking in would have seen a cruel woman being harsh to an innocent child, but Santana knew she had always stretched the boundaries and tested limits, and her grandmother had responded harshly to try to keep her safe, but make her strong.

 “ _Abuelita_ ,” she answers, “You look god-awful.”

Alma somehow snorts wheezily, despite the oxygen tubes in her nose. “I feel awful. I’ve felt awful for a year.”

“Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

She shrugs, “I don’t care what your father says, I don’t trust any damn doctors. Hell, if they didn’t have me damn near strapped to this bed…”

“You have to let them take care of you.”

“It’s not as though I have any choice,” she grumbles.

Santana just nods, and an awkward pause settles. Her grandmother closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them and regards Santana more closely.

“Did you come all the way from New York to see me?”

Santana nods, “Yeah.”

She puffs out a harsh breath, “That must mean I’m really dying.”

Try as she might, Santana can’t keep tears from flooding her eyes at this, “No,” she lies, “No, you’re gonna be fine.”

Her grandmother waves a hand weakly, “Don’t bullshit me, you were never any good at it. Tell me this. Are you still…that way?”

Santana freezes for a moment, and knows there’s no point in lying, “Yes,” she says quietly.

“Still with that Pierce girl?”

“Yes,” she’s a little defensive now. It’s second nature to a mention of Brittany. Besides, she _knows_ Brittany’s name.

The old eyes scan. “You don’t look any different.” A long pause, because Santana doesn’t know what to say to that, until Alma says, “I thought you’d have changed by now. Living in that city. Being how you are.”

Santana shrugs now, “I don’t _have_ to change anything. I’ve always been me, and I’ve always been…gay,” she chokes out. It’s like coming out to her grandmother all over again. “I’m still the same person.”

“I just figured you’d be a man by now. That’s all.”

 _Those_ words sting, for so many reasons. Ignorance. The insult implied. _Ignorance_. But Santana sighs. “No,” is all she can say, weakly.

“I don’t believe in a lot of things you young people do,” her _abuela_ says, “I still think that some secrets should be secret, and there are things your family has a right to ignore, to not know. But I also believe that God works in mysterious ways. And the fact is, I got sick almost as soon as I cut you out of my life.” She shakes her head. “I don’t care for that part of you. And I don’t care to even know anything more about it. But I do care for you, little Garbage Face.” She closes her eyes, “I just needed you to know that, before I go.”

“You’re not going any—,” Santana begins hotly.

“Shut up,” Alma cuts her off. “Just get on out of here, let me die in peace. You always were too stubborn for your own good.”

“I love you,” Santana blurts, halfway to the door, following her _abuela_ ’s instructions instinctively.

A weak chuckle. “I know you do. That’s because you were always too stupid for your own good, too.”

It’s as close as she’s likely to get to a similar declaration in return, but she easily feels the affection in her grandmother’s tone. She takes one last look at her frail body and leaves the room, wiping her eyes discretely as she meets Brittany.

Brittany holds her, briefly, allowing her to compose herself against her shoulder, before beginning to gently guide her away.

Now all there is to do is wait and see.

 

_End is the only part of the world that I heard_

 

The details don’t stick well in Santana’s mind—something about the gallbladder, and a blockage in the intestines, and ulcers; multitudinous problems. That had been why the source of her grandmother’s agony had been so hard to place. But the important thing does stick: her grandmother is alive and is expected to make a good recovery.

Hearing about her _abuela_ ’s good prognosis completely reverses Santana’s mood. Where she had just been laying listlessly on Brittany’s bed, the two of them half-dozing, now she’s abruptly overjoyed. She grabs Brittany’s face and kisses her, hard, passionately, in celebration. Brittany responds slowly and pulls away after several seconds, smiling with Santana. But when Santana begins to touch Brittany gently over her clothes, begins to slide her hands beneath her shirt to invite celebratory sex, Brittany grabs her wrists.

Santana feels hurt, “What?” she asks crossly. It’s rare that Brittany rejects her advances.

Smiling a bit sadly, Brittany responds, “Just not right now, okay? I’m glad you’re happy she’s going to be okay, I’m happy, too, but I don’t know if licking each other’s kitties is the best way to celebrate.”

“Are you kidding? It’s the _perfect_ way to celebrate. She’s alive and she might talk to me again. The love between us,” Santana waves a hand between them, “She knows about it, and she’ll still talk to me.”

“I really am so happy for you,” Brittany nods, “But just…not right now.”

“Okay…” Santana scowls.

She takes a shower, again, just to have something to _do_ while Brittany just lays there and talks to Lord Tubbington. She can’t hear what they’re saying (damn it, what _she’s_ saying, because it’s not like Lord Tubbington speaks _back_ , or at least, not that she _knows_ of, she has to admit she’s seen that cat do some strange things…), but she can hear Brittany’s low murmur through the door when she comes back from her shower.

She comes back in, wrapped in a towel, and Brittany meets her eye, “Your phone rang. It was your mom.”

“Oh, okay,” Santana nods. She perches on the edge of the bed and calls her mother back. She’s invited to go out to dinner with her family to celebrate her _abuela_ ’s prognosis, and she can bring Brittany, of course. She smiles. She figures she really should see her family. It seems odd that she hasn’t yet, but then, it had also felt natural to seek comfort with Brittany and in Brittany’s love. It felt…adult, somehow. Like she and Brittany are taking steps to be each other’s new family.

She hangs up with her mom and turns to grin at Brittany. “Want to come to dinner with my parents? I bet I can convince them to take us to Breadstix.”

Brittany laughs a bit, “Breadstix? Really? When your dad is paying you choose somewhere nicer.”

Santana waves a hand, “I miss my ‘Stix, and I wants them in me. Honestly, other than you it’s like the only other thing I miss about this awful place.”

Brittany’s smile turns sad, “I’d like to go with you, but I’d better not. I’ll need to catch up on the school I missed. I’m going to call Artie and Tina in a minute; they should be home from school by now. I’ll get my assignments and work on them so that we can have some time together tonight.”

 _That_ sounds like a promise, so Santana grins, “Perfect. You’re perfect, baby.” As she leans to kiss Brittany, she reflects that in previous years, Brittany would never have cared about catching up on missed classes. She feels a pang of guilt as she remembers all the times they’d cut class to go make out in secret corners of the school. Perhaps without her there as a distraction, Brittany could handle school with much more ease.

She just always thought of Brittany as someone who needed help, guidance. She had been a naïve child, and Santana had defended her against kids who took advantage of the fact that she didn’t see innuendo, didn’t understand she was being teased. Santana had helped her when school had been confusing (because Brittany’s mind was always wandering in class). But there’s the fact that Brittany is now passing, with ease, with help from Tina and Artie, who weren’t doing her work _for_ her, like Santana so often did…it strikes Santana, now, that Brittany is probably smarter than she ever gave her credit for.

She remembers, around Christmas time, asking Brittany if she was sure she wanted to go to college, if she was sure she could handle it. She remembered the way Brittany’s excited face fell, on the Skype screen, and now wants to kick herself. Brittany is being more responsible and studious this year than any other year of high school, and it’s clear she’s doing well.

Santana realizes that maybe she doesn’t know Brittany better than anyone. She’d never thought Brittany was capable of being a good student.

She stands up to get dressed and whips her towel off exaggeratedly, but Brittany is already unpacking her backpack at her desk and seems not to notice Santana’s nudity.

Dinner with her family is pleasant. Her mother tears up happily every few minutes, her father is slightly more chatty than usual. Almost every comment yields a short round of relieved, soft laughter, and Santana feels closer to them than almost ever before. But when she tells them she’ll be going back to Brittany’s for a day or so before heading back to New York, they understand. Her mother expresses disappointment that she hasn’t seen Brittany in awhile and requests Santana tell her hello. Santana feels proud and strong and happy that her family—her whole family—accepts, in their own way, how important Brittany is to her.

She arrives back at Brittany’s house to find her girlfriend bent over her desk, working on what looks like an English essay. She leans over to look, then turns her head and begins to place kisses on Brittany’s cheek, trailing them down her neck, nibbling at her shoulder. Brittany squirms and gently strokes Santana’s hair, lifting her head away from her neck, “Santana,” she chastises gently, “Let me at least finish this paragraph.”

“Alright,” Santana answers, exaggerating the glumness in her voice as she sits on the edge of Brittany’s bed. Brittany doesn’t seem to notice. She narrows her eyes. Little suspicions are building.

A minute or so later, Brittany turns around in her chair and smiles. Santana is still staring narrow-eyed at her, and her smile falters just a bit.

“What’s going on?” Santana finally asks.

Sighing, Brittany stands and moves over to sit next to Santana on the bed. She stares at her knees and says quietly, “We need to talk.”

Santana’s stomach drops, her dinner churns. “About what?” she asks quietly, but it’s barely a question, her voice is so monotone.

Brittany grabs her hand, almost reflexively. “This…this isn’t working, is it?”

“ _What_ isn’t?” She refuses to be the first person to say it.

“This. _Us_.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” she refutes stubbornly.

Brittany’s eyes squeeze shut, “Then, it isn’t working for me.”

Panic flutters now, her stomach clenches harder. “Then I’ll make it work. I’ll do anything.”

Brittany shakes her head, “You won’t. You can’t. And that’s okay.”

“ _How_ the hell is it okay?”

“Because this is temporary.”

“We are _not_ temporary! We are supposed to be together _forever_. I am _not_ giving up on us!” It sounds feeble, stupid, childish, coming from her mouth right now, but she can’t help how she feels. She knows she’s young, and she knows, logically, that so many relationships like hers don’t last, but she and Brittany are _different_. She’s always known that, too.

“I don’t mean we are temporary. I mean the reasons we aren’t working are temporary.”

“Oh.” Relief. She sucks in a deep breath, “Yeah, I know. We can power through it.” Brittany shaking her head, so she amends quickly, “Or, I can come back. Back to Lima, until you graduate. We can be together for real again.”

“ _No_ ,” Brittany says sharply, “You hate it here, and you can’t leave Rachel and Kurt with that rent.”

Santana scoffs, but she knows Brittany is right about that. She is struggling enough to pay rent with her hours the way they are right now, she can’t imagine the trouble she’d be having if Kurt hadn’t moved in.

“So…what are you saying?” she asks. She really is confused now, because Brittany is saying so much that conflicts. It isn’t working, but they aren’t temporary.

“I’m saying…I want to take a break.”

She shakes her head stubbornly, “I don’t.”

“Well, we need to. Don’t you get that?”

“No. Because the first step away is the first step toward never coming back to each other.”

“We _will_ come back to each other, though. Because I’m coming to New York to be with you, but if we keep going like this, we’re going to resent each other too much, fall out of love, before I get there.”

“This doesn’t make any sense. I love you. Being with you and away from you isn’t easy, but it’s worth it. I don’t resent you.”

Brittany stares at the wall for a several long moments. “You will. Because I am, a little.”

“I…” There really aren’t words.

Brittany shakes her head, hard. “I love you. I still love you, so much. But if I can’t be with you, and I really can’t be with anyone else…that makes me feel crazy. I wish I didn’t want other people, but I get _lonely_ without you. It just doesn’t make sense to stay together when we’re apart.”

“ _Yes_ it does, because we love each other.”

“And that fades the tighter we hold on to each other.”

“Not for me.”

“But it _might_. You haven’t had any luck getting with anyone in New York, have you? And it’s probably because of me?”

It’s an astute guess, considering Santana _hasn’t_ , and it _is_ , but she never told Brittany that. She hasn’t really had many opportunities to try, though.

“So, you want a break so you can, what, jump on some cock?” Santana asks bitterly.

“See, that’s just it. If we’re on a break, we can still love each other just as much. We can still talk and be best friends. But we can have some casual sex with people without hurting each other, because we don’t have that claim on each other. That claim makes us cling so tightly, so unreasonably. And since we know we’ll be together again, so soon…I know I won’t fall in love because I have that to look forward to. Because I know I love you best of all.”

It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense to Santana. “I still don’t see why we should break up if we still love each other.”

Brittany smiles, “I know you don’t. But I say we’re on break, and you can’t really change my mind.”

She thinks she might be too stunned to cry.

She doesn’t know how it happens, but before she knows it, their limbs are tangled together, and they’re kissing on the bed, her hands are tangled in Brittany’s hair. Her shirt disappears, then Brittany’s, then their pants, and they’re writhing, kissing feverishly. Santana rolls on top, her hand between Brittany’s legs, pressing firmly, rapidly, inside, bucking and grinding desperately against Brittany’s thigh. It’s so practiced she barely has to think about it, the sounds—the wetness around her fingers, the slap of skin, Brittany’s panting low whimpers, her own whimpers, much less aroused—completely familiar, for the most part. When Brittany comes, it’s so beautiful, that she follows suit, wailing, almost in agony, her head falling against Brittany’s shoulder.

She feels spent, far more spent than she usually is after sex, but maybe it’s because she’s weeping, too. She refuses to move, other than sliding her hand out of Brittany’s pussy, for a long time, and just stays as a dead weight on top of her, trying to cry silently against her skin. Brittany strokes her hair and kisses the top of her head.

Finally, she murmurs, “Did we just have break-up sex?”

Brittany chuckles a little, “I guess we did. Break sex, anyway.”

Santana shakes her head, “This is still so weird. I can’t really believe it.”

Brittany shrugs and lifts Santana’s chin to kiss her, very softly. “I’m just setting us both free for a little bit.”

Santana bites back the stubborn response that she doesn’t _want_ it and just sighs, settling her head back on Brittany’s shoulder.

After a little while, she says, “So, you’re going to go sleep with guys.”

Brittany doesn’t say anything for awhile and finally says, “If I get the chance, sure. I miss the meaningless fun I can have with them. With girls it’s always deeper, and I don’t want anything deeper except with you.”

Santana snorts. Her stomach burns. Why is this something she can’t be okay with? “Well, I don’t want to know anything when you do.”

Brittany nods, “Good, because I don’t want to have to tell you. Just because we’re on break doesn’t mean I want to hurt you.”

They’re quiet for a long time, and just breathe together, their naked skin sticking, hair stirring with their breaths. Santana listens to Brittany’s heart and breaths and tries to understand. Tries to believe this is a good idea. It’s just for several months until they can really be together again.

She’s never heard of an idea that can go so wrong in so short a time.

Finally, Brittany says quietly, “You realize that this means I can’t tell you not to sleep with Rachel or Quinn.”

A laugh chokes out of Santana before she can think about it. “I’m _sorry_?”

“Remember our agreement? When we were still dating I told you you couldn’t sleep with them. I mean, that doesn’t mean I want you to now, but I can’t tell you not to.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Santana breathes, “My answer is still the same. I’m not interested.”

“No,” Brittany frowns, “Last time it was because you said they were both straight. Did you figure it out now?”

Santana stares, “How did you even _know_?”

Brittany just shrugs, “I don’t think anyone is really straight. They both definitely want lady kisses, even if they won’t admit it.”

Santana stares some more, her mouth open a little bit. So it _wasn’t_ that Brittany had some kind of special insight, just a weird theory. In the back of her mind, she wonders if Brittany thinks no one is really _gay_ , either, and it bothers her more than it should. She sighs, “Okay, suppose you’re right that they do. I can assure you I’m not interested. It’s _weird_. Like, I’d be worried Quinn would choke me to death in bed or something, she’s intense. And Rachel’s like…my _sister_ or something now. I’ve seen her half naked god knows how many times, and _really_ , I’m not interested.”

Brittany nods and shrugs, “Okay. I believe you.” She’s quiet a minute, and then asks, “There’s really no attraction to Rachel?”

“I _just_ told you—”

“I _know_ , but that’s because you’ve lived with her. I just…it was just really weird when you suddenly decided to become friends with her last year.”

Santana thinks back to that moment when Rachel had boldly approached her and practically browbeat her into putting a picture in her locker. She smiles a little at the memory. “I don’t know,” she says slowly, “I mean, there were always things I kind of admired about her, you know? Even though mostly I was jealous. I guess I was still riding the adrenaline from a _really_ good duet and when she was ballsy enough to just walk right up and insist of friendship…” she lifts a shoulder in a shrug, “I kinda had to respect that. She’s got guts and talent. And for the first time, they didn’t make me jealous, because I felt like I matched them that time. And like, I thought, it can’t hurt. She might be famous someday. I thought I’d be friends with her for like two months and then she wouldn’t make a chapter about how I’m Satan in her memoir.”

Brittany’s frowning, “It’s not because you were hot for her? It was kind of an intimate duet.”

“ _No_ ,” Santana insists, “I mean, I can see the appeal, especially when she doesn’t dress like a Salvation Army sales rack from the children’s section. She’s got great legs. But she just _doesn’t_ do it for me. Your legs are _far_ better. There’s like, no comparison.”

“Okay,” Brittany agrees, flexing her own legs. “But we just spent so much time keeping her down. You _told_ me we had to keep her down because she was unbearable. When you changed your mind, I just went with it and decided to be nice to her, but I didn’t understand. I still really don’t.” She shrugs, “I don’t understand girl friendships. It’s easy to be friends with boys. They just say you’re cool and that’s that. Girl friendships are weird. I never had a reason to really like Rachel. I would still be fine with showing her that I’m better than her even now, because I _am_ , but…she was suddenly important to you and Quinn. I guess that’s why I stopped.”

Santana frowns at this, “I didn’t realize you didn’t really like her.”

“I don’t dislike her,” Brittany counters, “But I barely know her, I guess. We hung out all summer and she and I barely talked. I can be nice to her, that’s fine. I like being nice when I have a reason to be, just like I like being mean when I have good reason. It’s just a weird reason to be nice this time, since it seemed so random when you changed your mind.”

“So, do you…even want to live with Rachel next year?”

“Sure,” Brittany shrugs, “Like I said, I’m fine with her. I want to know her better. I was just curious.”

“Right,” Santana nods.

It’s weird, but she’d never felt so far from Brittany, even as she’s there in her arms. Maybe it’s the break, combined with the realization that Brittany doesn’t _need_ her, not the way Santana always thought she did. Brittany was an independent woman, maybe finally coming into her own this year, and Santana wasn’t a part of it.

Eventually, she rolls off of Brittany and falls asleep, curled up in a ball, away from her. Brittany doesn’t even attempt to spoon her. When Brittany wakes up to her alarm and tries to decide if she wants to go to school, Santana tells her to go ahead, that she’s going to head home. She’d wanted to stay for another day or so, maybe, just enjoying the chance to spend time with Brittany and celebrate her grandmother’s recovery, but…there’s no point now.

The drive home is somehow more numb than the drive to Lima. Maybe because she isn’t trying to cloud her feelings with distractions. Maybe because she’s still in shock, still has no idea _what_ to feel.

She has no idea what the point even is in going home, in doing anything.

 

_Your heart is a plastic thing and can be bought_

 

It’s been about two weeks since she and Quinn had that conversation that changed everything, that saved their friendship. Santana has been to Lima and just came back, reporting that her grandmother is fine, yet she’s still been sulking around the apartment. Rachel is not sure what to do about that; she texted Santana a couple times while Santana was away, just to check up on her, and really only got monosyllabic answers, if any. She figures Santana needs some distance for whatever reason, and gives it to her. For his part, Kurt has been so busy with work this week that she doubts he even noticed Santana was out of town.

She has to admit she’s been pretty busy herself. She’s been putting in a lot of extra time in the vocal practice rooms, and in private lessons. Her teacher is even starting to seem annoyed with her, but it’s _just_ so difficult to get the sound right for operatic singing. She hates having to curb her propensity to emphasize syllables by sliding subtly into the notes. She hates how precise she has to be, how she has to exaggerate her vibrato. How she’s really only allowed to sing like two vowel sounds. How all of this constricts her from being able to put emotion into the singing the way she does when she normally sings and acts. There’s so much to focus on and it feels like she’s using her voice as a machine instead of as an instrument; less artistic, more rote. But, her callback is next week, and it’s her current project. Never mind that everything about it feels wrong (the fact that it’s opera, the fact that it’s a Christmas production they’re going to be putting on in April due to the wonders of school scheduling, and really, the fact that she might be playing a little boy).

She’s on her way home with Kurt and they’ve just come up from the subway near their apartment. He’s so tired he hasn’t even untied his food-stained apron from around his waist, and he’s limping slightly; he still insists on wearing boots to the restaurant instead of something like sneakers. Then again, she’s not sure she’s seen him wear sneakers outside of gym class. Maybe he no longer owns a pair.

A few steps from the subway station and she feels her phone buzz in her pocket. She frowns and extracts it, noting that she has a voicemail. That’s a little odd in itself, because most people who call her and don’t get an answer would probably just text; that’s what Santana and Quinn do. Her dads leave voicemails sometimes, though, so maybe it’s one of them.

She doesn’t recognize the number, but it’s her home area code, so it seems safe.

Her heart seems to fall into her stomach as soon as the voice in the message starts speaking.

“Hello, Rachel. This is Jesse St. James. I heard through the grapevine that you’re in New York studying at NYADA. Well, I just recently moved to the city to do some work, and I wondered if you’d like to get dinner sometime this weekend. You know, to catch up. I would just love to see you. Do call back, my number is the same.”

She hangs up numbly, swallowing, both shocked at his assumption that she would have kept his number and embarrassed by the fact that she _has_ (though, not in her phone; she had deleted it for Finn’s sake last year, but she does still have his number tucked away). Kurt glances at her with drowsy eyes and asks, “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” she answers, swallowing. Somehow she just doesn’t want to tell Kurt that Jesse just called her. She feels like he would have a kneejerk reaction, and she wants someone who can help her think _clearly_ about all this. “Nothing important, just information about my callback for _Amahl_.”

He nods distractedly, and winces through a limping step. When they get home, he mumbles that he’s going to take a bath, and Rachel is relieved to see that the bedroom is empty; Santana must’ve headed to work. She has relative privacy.

Quinn answers, sounding tired, on the fourth ring. “Hello? Rachel?”

“Hi, Quinn,” she smiles, “How are you?”

There’s a sigh, and a pause, like Quinn is considering her words, but finally she just says, “Alright. Just looks like a busy weekend already. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” Rachel begins slowly, then says, “I’d…I’d want to chat more, but since you’re busy, maybe I’ll just get to the point. I need some advice.”

“Okay,” Quinn sounds more focused now, “I can do that.”

Rachel nods. Now that she’s on the phone, it’s suddenly harder to talk, but she takes a breath and utters, “I got a phone call. From Jesse St. James.”

Silence on the other end for a bit. “Oh?” Quinn asks. Her voice is a bit weak.

“Yes,” Rachel continues, “Apparently he’s in New York. He wants to meet with me.”

“Okay…” Quinn says slowly, “I’m not sure how I can help.”

“I just need to know…should I meet with him?”

“Are you seriously calling to ask me this?” Quinn asks, a bitter edge to her voice, “ _Obviously_ you shouldn’t. He’s scum, Rachel. He’s never wanted anything to do with you unless it was to use you, and when he’s done, he always betrays you, painfully.”

Rachel twists her mouth a little, “Well, no, that’s not _really_ true. He never tried to hurt me Junior year.”

Quinn snorts lightly, “He was horrible enough to you before then. Some people don’t deserve another chance from you.”

All at once, Rachel clearly remembers the sensation of raw egg smashing and cracking on the top of her head. But at the same time, she understands it. Jesse had to look out for his own interests, his own future, and his best prospects were in being her enemy.

She might’ve done the same thing, in his shoes.

But she doesn’t say that to Quinn. Instead, she reminds her quietly, “ _You_ were horrible to me. But I trust you.”

In the silence that follows, Rachel can actually hear Quinn swallow over the phone, “Maybe if you’d have asked me, I’d say the same thing about me, a year or two ago. But it’s okay, because I’m not sure you really _do_ trust me.”

“What are you talking—”

“I’m sorry,” Quinn says quickly, “That was out of line. I just…” she pauses, “I just know we still have work to do, putting what happened behind us.” She laughs mirthlessly, “What I _did_ to you, I mean, it didn’t just _happen_. You didn’t want to tell me about what was happening with Finn. I didn’t want to tell you I’m gay. We’re still building that trust we claim to have.”

“Okay,” Rachel concedes, “Maybe you’re right.”

“Look,” Quinn continues, voice strong now, “You’ve told me before that you trust my judgment. That you’ve wished you’d listened to me other times. I’m telling you right now, stay away from Jesse. He’s bad news, and I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”

She’s not sure why, but Quinn’s words turn her spine to stubborn steel. “You know, I’m not sure what makes him so different from you, after all,” she muses, “I think you _both_ have tried to manipulate me. And I think, I can’t call myself your best friend and _not_ give Jesse another chance.”

“He’s _had_ another chance, and he embarrassed you at prom!”

“No, _Finn_ embarrassed both of us,” Rachel corrects, “Besides, how many chances have I given you?”

“Rachel…” Quinn whispers, her voice broken, “Just…please.”

“No, I get it now,” Rachel says decisively, “Thank you for your concern, Quinn, but you’ve reminded me of what’s important. Forgiveness.”

Quinn can’t come up with anything to say and just sighs.

“I’ll let you get back to your weekend,” Rachel says pleasantly, “And I’ll let you know how it goes. Thank you for being a sounding board.”

“Right,” Quinn answers dully.

“Good night, Quinn.”

“Bye, Rachel.”

It’s a little bit late, but this is New York, so she’s not all that worried as she returns Jesse’s call.

“Rachel,” he damn near purrs into the phone, “How wonderful to hear from you. I’d hoped you’d call back.”

“Jesse,” she returns, her voice rather formal, “How are you?”

“Even better now,” he responds. Rachel smiles in spite of herself.

Jesse claims to not have much time because he’s currently rehearsing, so they cut to the chase, and agree to meet the next night, Saturday, for dinner. He says he’ll handle the reservation and text her the location and time. Rachel is relieved she has a morning work shift the next day so she can make this.

An hour later, she gets a text naming a moderately upscale location in Manhattan, with an 8pm reservation. It’s enough to make her heart rate pick up, partially for the overtly romantic insinuation, and partly for the cost. She hopes she’ll be able to cover her portion of the bill.

She has just enough time to come home and get ready after her work shift. Her stomach is already growling as she steps out of the shower, and although the restaurant doesn’t actually have a strict dress code, she dresses nicely anyway, in a purple long-sleeved dress with a low neckline and heels, her hair brushed over one shoulder. She doesn’t have a particularly fancy winter coat, so she just wears her peacoat, and hopes her hat and scarf don’t ruin her hair on the way. It’s a bit cold to go without them.

Although she arrives several minutes early, Jesse is already seated and waiting for her when she gets there. She’s relieved that there’s a tiny coatroom so she can remove her unflattering outwear and smooth her hair before she goes to meet him. He stands when he sees her, running his hands down his white shirt and vest unnecessarily. He looks effortless in his clothing, neither too fancy nor too casual, his hair is beautiful. He isn’t wearing a tie, which somehow makes him seem even more appealing, and there are the thinnest pinstripes of purple in his vest that, miraculously, match her dress exactly.

“Rachel,” he draws out her chair for her and unnecessarily takes her hand as she seats herself.

“Hello, Jesse,” she responds. She tries to keep her mind clear of just how good-looking he is, tries to ignore the way her heart speeds up when he helps her sit down. Because, in spite of the way her conversation with Quinn ended, she’s left thinking about Quinn’s point. She _should_ be wary of Jesse, even as she gives him another chance.

He orders wine when the waiter approaches, and she shoots him a look, even as he’s carded. She subsides quickly, “Oh, right. You just turned 21.”

He smiles without teeth, and she notices the faintest dimples in his cheeks. “You remember my birthday?”

Rachel feels her body heat up and hopes she isn’t noticeably blushing, “I guess I do.”

Somehow, their age difference hadn’t seemed so great, even when she was a Sophomore and he was a Senior. It’s just three years, but maybe right now, they feel like three really _crucial_ years. Especially if Jesse’s career is already underway…

For her part, Rachel sticks with ordering water, and then begins scouring the menu for vegan options. Nothing sticks out, and she starts feel anxious.

Jesse actually notices. She sees the frown lines on his forehead as he regards her, “What’s wrong?”

“I…don’t see anything vegan on here,” she frets at her lip a bit.

His brows furrow, “You’re still vegan?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she hisses, slightly annoyed, and the way he used her diet against her previously once again flashes through her mind.

He holds up his hands, “No offense meant. I just see a lot of vegans fail, is all. It says a lot about your level of commitment.” he smiles disarmingly.

Jesse calls over the waiter with that commanding finger snap that Kurt used to do (and now complains about _bitterly_ ). Rachel prickles unpleasantly, but Jesse turns on plenty of charm when the man is there. The waiter nods and immediately says the chef can easily prepare a fresh vegan dish. Rachel barely listens to what it is, she’s so grateful it’s available.

Jesse peruses the menu for several moments more, his lips pursed thoughtfully, before setting it aside with a smile. He meets her eye, and steeples his fingers under his chin, “So. Tell me all about New York.”

And so Rachel begins. Talking is easy. Even when they’re interrupted by the waiter when he comes back for Jesse’s order (he orders a steak, of course), it’s barely a hiccup. Rachel tells him about NYADA, how everyone is _so_ talented, about Gretchen, who commands so much of Rachel’s respect even though she’s so _cold_ and so _stoic_. About her performances in the play and the musical, about her upcoming callback for the opera. About living with Kurt and Santana (she doesn’t miss his surprise at _that_ detail) and about how it’s simultaneously a blessing, to have such good friends by her side, and a struggle, to have so little personal space and to have such quirks that they annoy each other. About her job at the clothing store, with Kurt, and her very easy library job on campus, and how they’re all kind of struggling a bit to make enough money to live there, in their slightly sketchy neighborhood. About Quinn, and how they’re such good friends (and boy, if she’d thought Jesse was surprised _before_ …), and Quinn’s visits are almost the only reason she really gets to go out and _enjoy_ the city, and how relaxing on the couch with Quinn is some of the only times she really enjoys the quiet. About how she’s tried out for several shows, on Broadway and off, and has mostly been told that she’s very talented but not _quite_ right.

She doesn’t mention Finn, or Jeremy.

Jesse is a very good listener, or at least, he appears to be listening closely. She supposes out of all her boyfriends, he really was the best at paying attention to her, even if he’d rather talk about himself, and she’s _sure_ he’s itching to. She talks through their first course—salads, hers without feta—to the point that she barely eats hers.

Toward the end of what turns out to be essentially a monologue about her life, their main course arrives. She watches Jesse replace the napkin on his lap and then lift his wine glass, eyes twinkling. “To your burgeoning success,” he offers with his charming smirk, lifting it. Rachel lifts her own water glass and they clink, gently, and sip. His eyes never leave hers.

Rachel begins to tuck into her food, which turns out to be pasta with roasted vegetables—a lot of winter root vegetables and greens. “So, Jesse, tell me about what brings you to New York.”

Jesse smiles and eats a bite of steak, then leans back in a self-satisfied sort of way. “Well. It all happened last year at Nationals.”

“Oh?” Rachel prompts.

Jesse nods. “It turns out Carmen Tibideaux wasn’t the only talent scout in the audience that night.” He smirks, “There was a choreographer in the audience, too. I ran into him later that night.” Rachel nods, and Jesse leans forward with a conspiratorial wink, “I think he thought I was Will Schuester at first, and I went along with it. By the time he realized I’d coached the _second_ place team to victory, he was already quite interested in me and my individual talents. And, it turns out he remembered me from Nationals 2010. When he discovered I could perform _and_ coach…yeah. We exchanged information and he told me he had a few upcoming projects he might be able to put in a good word for me about. I took my losing team home and prevented half a dozen suicides. A little time passed.”

Jesse pauses to eat, and Rachel wonders what might have happened if _Mr. Schue_ had met the choreographer, who seemed to be more interested in him, anyway. Would Mr. Schue still be in Lima? Would Mr. Schue even have _married_ Emma? All at once, she’s struck with the notion that Mr. Schue might be stuck there, stuck building a life in Lima, his own dreams confined to fantasy.

She doesn’t want to think about how close she may have come to that, if she’d stayed with Finn.

New York isn’t perfect, but it’s _hers_.

A few bites later and Jesse swallows, wipes his mouth delicately, and continues. “I heard from him about an audition about a month later. I flew out to New York, but it didn’t pan out. There were a couple more like that, until not too long ago, he told me about the _Pippin_ revival.” He pauses significantly, “I auditioned and…it went rather well.”

Rachel stares, wide-eyed, “You _got_ the part? You got _Pippin_?!”

Jesse just smiles enigmatically and raises his eyebrows. Rachel is speechless, her heart is pounding in a heady mix of excitement and jealousy. It’s not her favorite show by any means—it’s really weird—but _still_. It’s an amazing role for Jesse.

Finally, she utters, “Congratulations. That’s amazing.”

He inclines his head in modest thanks and sips his wine. “They thought so. So, I moved out of Ohio, and here I am. Ready to make my Broadway debut and really get started on my career.” He waves a hand lazily, “I got as much as I need out of school, and honestly, coaching Vocal Adrenaline wasn’t nearly as rewarding as I thought it’d be. No wonder Shelby left.” He falls silent.

Rachel swallows carefully and doesn’t say anything, in fact, takes another bite of food to prevent speech, because the question of where exactly Shelby went is burning in her throat. Instead, she congratulates him again, “That’s really great. I’m really happy for you.”

He grins and chews another bite. Then he frowns, slightly, “Something _is_ missing, though.”

“What’s that?” Rachel asks.

His eyes flash, “ _Romance_ ,” he purrs, and pouts a little, “There’s not even a good epic _stage_ romance.”

Rachel avoids his eyes and pushes her food around on her plate. She doesn’t want to talk about this with him. She’s terrified of the questions he must have, about what happened with Finn. The last time they’d seen each other, she was still wearing his ring….

When she doesn’t say anything, he just smiles, slightly, a prompt. Cautiously, she replies, “I’m not sure what you should do about that.”

“I have a few ideas,” he answers, “And maybe we could explore one if you’ll go on another date with me.”

“Date?” she asks. Her eyes flick around the table. In spite of their clothes, and the atmosphere and the food, she hadn’t been entirely sure this _was_ a date. She thought it was just catching up with an old friend…well, _sort of_ an old friend, and her romantic imagination got swept up in the environment.

“Date,” he answers decisively, “And maybe, next date, I can introduce you to some of my contacts in the business.” He winks, “I could be persuaded to be just as invested in your success as my own. Honestly, I’ve always been a little bit invested in your future. Your kind of talent is rare.”

She blushes, and smiles, looking down and catching her bottom lip between her teeth, but the butterflies in her stomach, she realizes, are present because of anxiety, not romantic excitement. She can hear Quinn in her mind again, warning her that Jesse wants to use her, not to trust him.

“I…don’t know if I want to be seeing anyone right now,” she tells him honestly, “I feel like I have enough to worry about with school and my jobs.”

He’s frowning, but nods a few times. Then his face brightens slightly and he leans forward, “What if I introduced you anyway? And just…let them believe we were together? We would never have to do anything together in private. Just…appear to be together, for the sake of both our careers.”

She stares at him, at his bright, hopefully features, his perfect hair, his lips. “You’re saying…you want a fauxmance with me, and in exchange, you’ll try to help me get roles on Broadway?”

“I’d _settle_ for a fauxmance,” he corrects. He sobers. “It could be beneficial for both of us. If we're together, I have a reason to introduce you, and if I bring new, incredible talent to my contacts in the business, I look even better than I already do. And besides. If they see the chemistry you and I have _always_ had, we might get put in something together.”

Rachel frowns, and stares at him, and thinks while she finishes her meal.

By the time Jesse is ordering his dessert, she’s pretty sure she’s made up her mind.

“No,” she tells him, and it almost surprises her, too.

He looks shocked. “Rachel,” he says carefully, “This could be a great opportunity for us both. We have our careers to think of.”

She nods, conceding the point, but says, “My career is a big part of what I want to be successful and happy, but…” she pauses, thinking carefully, “If there’s one thing I learned, being with Finn, it’s that I can’t sacrifice love for my career. Breaking up with Finn, I also learned I can’t sacrifice my career for love, either.”

Jesse just looks confused and a little sour at the mention of Finn, “So, what,” he asks slowly, “Your _career_ is your love?”

“No,” Rachel tells him, “Love and my career are separate, and I have to balance them. It isn’t easy. But I can’t cripple my chances at love by settling for a fauxmance with you.”

“It doesn’t _have_ to be a fauxmance,” Jesse reminds her stubbornly.

She smiles at him, “Maybe in a different time, at a different place, I’d be willing to give you another chance,” she tells him honestly, “But right now? I don’t think so. Not when you’ve approached me, after so long, take me out to a place I can’t really afford, and make me an offer that asks me to cut myself off from finding love in order to better yourself.”

Jesse blinks, “You can’t afford…Rachel, did you really think I wasn’t paying?”

Rachel is surprised, but she just sighs, “That’s the least important part of my point. But the answer is no, Jesse.”

In that moment, she thinks, once again, _why do I even ignore Quinn’s advice_?

Jesse is disappointed, but he understands. And in the next few minutes, Rachel is positive she’s made the right choice, because he tells her in a subdued voice, “I guess I understand. And you know, Rachel…I really can’t deny you anything. I’d be happy to introduce you to my people…as my friend.”

“Really?” she asks, slightly in awe.

“Really,” he smiles. His smile wavers, just a little bit. “Although I can’t promise you anything because…while I’m _in_ _Pippin_ …I’m not… _Pippin_.”

“You…lied to me?” Rachel asks, hurt flashing through her more than anger.

He grimaces, “All I said was that the audition went well. You just inferred incorrectly, and I didn’t correct you.” He sighs. “I’m one of the Players in the show, and…understudy to Charles. I was _nearly_ understudy to Pippin…”

Rachel sighs heavily. “I _thought_ that sounded strange. I was sure I’d heard something about the revival, I was sure I’d have remembered if you got the role…” But she gets it now. Jesse feels overlooked, underappreciated, because he _hadn’t_ immediately succeeded, despite his charm and good looks and talent. He wants to be recognized as someone valuable, and wanted to bring her in to show it.

Quinn was right about him. Even if it would have been mutually beneficial, Jesse had wanted to use her, and he wasn’t above using romance to get there.

And…she thinks again about Gretchen, about the way Gretchen implied that Rachel was not picky when it came to romance, and thinks, _if I got back together with Jesse now, it wouldn’t be because I want him. I would be settling. I need to pursue what_ I _want_.

Whatever _that_ is.

It’s really a shame, she reflects, because she understands him so well. In most ways, she feels like he’s the most similar to her of anyone she ever dated. But that, she realizes, is exactly why they don’t work. They’re both _too_ ambitious, and together, they would cheapen their own relationship to get on top. Rachel needs someone a little more like Finn, who would remind her that the relationship is important, too. But not too much like Finn. Not so much that they’d hold her back.

She blinks, that first time she thinks in gender-neutral terms about a potential romantic partner. She’d used them before, to be PC or queer-friendly, inclusive terms that didn’t really apply to her imagination, which had always featured men as her romantic partners. But _this_ time…there was the notion that “ _they_ ” might be someone else.

She tries to think on it further. She tries to picture it. She can imagine a faceless, shadowy woman, almost in black and white, like she’s being pasted into Rachel’s thoughts through an old movie projector. She can imagine kissing this woman, holding her, curling up on the couch with her, even…even _touching_ her, but…the fantasy breaks down as soon as she tries to imagine taking the woman _outside_ of their shared apartment, on a date, to dinner…to a _wedding_ , god the thought of marrying her makes Rachel want to laugh.

She shakes her head. She can sort of imagine being with a woman, just not… _publicly_. But she doesn’t really have time to think on that, either. Jesse is finishing his dessert and signing his credit card receipt. She feels unexpectedly guilty about the fact that he’s paying, especially considering he _hasn’t_ achieved his Broadway stardom, but he isn’t complaining. As they leave, he helps her into her coat and puts an arm around her shoulders. She shrugs it off a little awkwardly.

Outside, he smiles, asks which way she’s heading. He’s going the opposite way, toward a different train. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, still smiling, and moves to hug her, but she shrinks away without knowing why. She’s not upset with him. So she gives him an apologetic smile and leans in to give him a brief hug.

He’s warm and strong and smells good. She wonders if things could have been different between them, but she isn’t really disappointed that they aren’t. And even though she’s sure he’ll keep his promise, and he will be in touch, the hug feels like goodbye.

He pulls away, catching her hand to squeeze it once more, then just winks and strolls away. She waves once, a little feebly, before walking the opposite way herself.

 

_Passion’s overrated anyway_

 

When she makes it back from her brief visit in Lima, she just kind of shows up at work, not knowing what else to do. She doesn’t even remember if she was scheduled. Her manager, Stu, just kind of blinks at her, asks if she’s alright, and with a shrug agrees that she can work that night.

Her brain is a mess of conflicting emotions. She’d previously felt guilty and awkward around Helen, but now seeing her former sort-of friend, she just sees red. She restocks the health and beauty section, and kicks around boxes in the women’s shaving and soap section in frustration. As she starts stocking the men’s section, she comes to the realization that it feels like the warehouse packaging for men’s products—razors, body wash, deodorant—is sturdier than the packaging for women’s products; she certainly has less frustration with them. They’re also cheaper. It just figures, she thinks. Men’s products are less valuable yet better protected.

It feels all-too relevant to her life right now. Men are less valuable to Brittany, who claims to still love only her, but more necessary somehow. To the point that Brittany needs to take a break from Santana to be with them. It makes her body hurt. It makes her angry and she kicks a box of men’s body wash, just to break it open.

Maybe because her growing anger makes her work faster, or distracts her, but the shift passes quickly. And she seems to work through her emotions as the shift goes on, moving from angry to a sort of frustration to a melancholy acceptance.

It’s hard sometimes for her to think about the way other people perceive things. She’d thought, at one point, that she could be kinda bi…she liked sex with men well enough. But once she paid attention to what was in her heart—women—the sex she had with men, even men she had a decent degree of simpatico with, like Puck, just couldn’t compare. It was _easy_ for her to completely lose interest in male bodies and penises and everything that had to do with dating and bedding them in favor of Brittany.

So why, she keeps asking herself, can’t Brittany do the same? Why does Brittany still enjoy men just as much as she always has?

The loudest part of her, the selfish part that tends to think that she is always right, tells her it’s because Brittany doesn’t love her as much as she loves Brittany. But a more rational part of her brain slowly begins to make her understand: Brittany was always legitimately bisexual. She wasn’t. And it doesn’t have anything more to do with their love, because Brittany isn’t looking for love. Brittany is looking for a way to make love work.

Even though she can’t personally understand Brittany’s methods and doesn’t particularly like them, after spending the shift inside her own head, she thinks she’s more or less made peace with it. As long as she doesn’t think too hard about what Brittany’s up to, she can accept what’s happening. She can accept this break for what it is: the only way to keep Brittany.

Even though it’s _so stupid_ to break up so Brittany can mess around with _guys_ , disgusting _guys_ and their _stupid_ …she doesn’t let herself continue on this path, and instead reminds herself of the good men in her life: Kurt. Sam. Hell, even Puck, who watches shows with her and seems to understand her when she laments that growing up sucks.

She’s wrapped up enough in her own thoughts that she even inadvertently stays a little bit late, and the minute she realizes this, she abandons what she is working on and just begins to walk out. Only to nearly walk into Angela.

“Oh! Hi, Santana,” Angela greets.

Santana glowers for a split second before forcing her expression to clear, because Angela looks actually glad to see her. So she forces a smile, “Hey,” she answers casually, hunching her shoulders awkwardly without realizing it.

“Hey, listen,” Angela looks around furtively, and grabs Santana’s elbow to lead her down into an aisle. Santana follows a bit dazedly, surprised by the contact. Angela lowers her eyes and her voice, “I’ve been hoping to run into you for awhile now. I’ve been thinking more about your offer to me,” she says, one corner of her mouth lifting in a little grin, “and I’ve talked to some friends and gotten some advice and…yeah. I think something casual and a non-relationship might be exactly what I need right now.”

Santana blinks. A week ago, she might have been elated, but right now, she has no idea what to think. Still…as the idea sinks in, she notes that her heart rate has risen, and that her eyes dipped to Angela’s breasts. “Yeah?” she asks.

Angela nods and grins, “Yeah. Although, I do want to talk to your girlfriend. You know. To make sure it’s actually cool with her.”

Santana shrugs, “You won’t have to. She and I are on break. I mean, if you want proof, I can let you talk to her but…yeah,” she shrugs sullenly.

“Oh,” Angela says, “I’m so sorry you broke up.”

“We didn’t. It’s just a break until she moves here, then we pick up where we left off. So…it’s cool that, this thing between us, has an expiration date, right?”

“Of course. It’s probably better that way,” Angela nods, but her eyes are sad as she regards Santana. So Santana avoids them.

“So, uh. Cool. So. We can…do the casual thing then.”

“Mmhmm,” Angela purrs, smirking again.

“So what should we do?”

“I took us out last time. It’s your turn,” Angela winks, then walks away.

Santana stares after her. She’d been avoiding her out of humiliation for, what, weeks now? But this…this is perfect timing. A distraction from her break with Brittany fell right into her lap.

A hot distraction.

Helen’s angry face, snarling about “back-ups,” flashes through her mind, and Santana pushes the thought away.

Nothing is going to change the love she has for Brittany, no matter how much she goes down on Angela.

And fuck, does she want to go down on Angela.

She drives home with a smirk of her own.

 

_I will relentlessly shame myself_

 

The conversation she has with Rachel about Jesse is the beginning to a very strange weekend.

Stephanie is in a remarkably cheerful mood, which at first seems to be a good omen about the weekend. She had been insanely productive that evening, finishing almost all her weekend homework, and spent dinner chatting excitedly about nothing in particular. Quinn isn’t even sure how she’d been so productive, with music in her headphones loud enough for Quinn to hear across the room, and with the way she danced in her chair while she worked. She’d also gone out for the evening, and _that_ was the thing about her good mood that really gave Quinn pause.

“I’m going to a party!” she chirps excitedly half an hour after dinner.

Quinn frowns, “But what about the reading we have to do for Dr. Palmer?”

Stephanie waves a hand, “Oh, I speed read most of it, got the gist, I’m not worried. I’m well prepared enough for class! But I’m excited! Do you want to come?”

“…no,” Quinn says hesitantly, “I don’t think so.” She supposes all parties aren’t like the ones she sees on TV and movies, college keggers with craziness and date rape, but…they’d _talked_ before, about how they didn’t party. Stephanie’s parents were alcoholics; it was one reason her grandmother had raised her. Quinn had _thought_ she didn’t want to be tempted at parties like this. But asks, “Someone’s going with you, right?”

“Oh, sure!” Stephanie assures, “Lucas is taking me!”

“Great,” Quinn grumbles. She’s still pretty uncertain how she feels about him. He isn’t entirely the jerk she thought he was, but that didn’t mean she liked him much more. She would feel better if it were Sean accompanying Stephanie. Sean seems more responsible. He does drink sometimes because, as he says, Chemistry majors had to to stay sane, and he’s practicing for when he gets to declare. Stephanie gathers her shower things and practically dances to the bathroom. Quinn frowns after her, then goes back to her reading.

Stephanie comes back not long afterwards, wrapped in her too-short towel. Santana’s smirk and cocky teasing fills Quinn’s mind, _Did you sneak a peek?_

 _God, help me_.

Her eyes totally out of her control, Quinn raises them over the edge of her book to watch as Stephanie, her side to Quinn, bends over. The way the towel rises, exposing more tan thigh, nearly to her ass, the way her cleavage strains over the towel and the arm holding it in place, and Quinn is again struck by the size of her roommate’s breasts.

 _That I once ran my hands over_.

Quinn drops her eyes back to her book, but could swear she saw Stephanie smirking. And she can’t help but be constantly aware of all the skin on display across the room, as her roommate, with barely any modesty, begins to dress. This is not completely common. Stephanie sometimes dresses in the bathroom after her showers. And Quinn, for her part, usually turns away entirely.

It’s just that now that she’s _out_ , turning away like that feels like admitting guilt to something.

The towel drops so that it hangs only around Stephanie’s waist, and Quinn’s eyes flash up to take in Stephanie’s naked back. The flesh is tan and soft and curvy. Quinn knows exactly how it feels to run her hands over that skin. Stephanie leans over to get a bra, and Quinn sees the outline of a breast, round and full, as her body moves. She curses herself when she realizes she’s hoping to see a nipple, and jerks her eyes back to her reading. She shifts on her bed as a not entirely pleasant tingling starts in her…in her panties.

There are shuffling sounds of fabric across the room, and when Quinn sees the towel get hung up in her periphery, she figures it must be safe to look again. She nearly chokes when she realizes it _really_ is not.

Her roommate has her back to Quinn, and sure, she’s wearing a bra and underpants. But, the underwear is a thong. Quinn stares helplessly at Stephanie’s round ass, tight-looking and shapely in comparison to her lean, short legs. The tingling begins to feel more like itching, like her body is screaming to be touched. She watches until Stephanie slides jeans on over that ass, and then Quinn remembers how _rude_ it is to stare, and stares instead at her book, which won’t be offended, sure, but which significantly lacks beautiful, smooth, delicious curves.

She shifts on the bed again, crossing her legs firmly.

A few moments later, Stephanie is fully dressed and pulling on her winter coat, though no hat or scarf. “Okay! I’m going to meet Lucas!” She grins at Quinn, “Behave while I’m gone,” she admonishes, her smile turning a bit wicked.

Quinn keeps her expression blank, or at least she hopes it’s blank. It’s something she’s supposed to be good at, hiding her thoughts and feelings. “Sure. A fun night of homework awaits me,” she grumbles.

“Uh huh,” Stephanie giggles, “I’ll be back later!” she calls, much too loudly as she leaves the room. She forgets to lock the door behind her, so, sighing, Quinn gets up to lock it herself.

By the time she sits back down, she’s disgusted with herself. Yet, her body still tingles, without warmth, with only ridiculous need to be touched.

Quinn struggles to ignore it, berating herself over and over for watching her roommate change like some kind of disgusting pervert, until the words she’s supposed to be reading blur, and she’s running her eyes over them methodically while taking nothing in.

It’s at about that moment when she gets the call from Rachel.

She’s so distracted, she feels like she really can’t make her point properly, really can’t express fully to Rachel what a _bad_ idea it is to see Jesse. But she knows she’s also _personally_ conflicted, and she can’t stop that part of her from having its say. The part of her that, at this moment, just can’t _stand_ to think about Rachel having another boyfriend, particularly one like Jesse, who, goddamn it, was probably _right_ for Rachel in a lot of ways.

She hangs up just…aching. It’s so stupid, but she’s furious and jealous. _Jesse_ gets another chance with Rachel, that he _certainly_ doesn’t deserve, because he’s male. _She_ will never get a _first_ chance.

She focuses on her schoolwork. Or tries. But her heartache and the distinct…wetness between her legs are distracting.

Rachel is moving on from Finn. It’s the thing she’s wanted for Rachel for _so long_. Her objection to Finn hadn’t entirely been about her feelings for Rachel. It had mostly been about the reasons Finn was wrong for her, the ways he would hold her back. Back then, she knew she didn’t have a prayer of _ever_ being someone Rachel could want. But now…

She supposes Jesse hurts more because, even just briefly, there was a time when her fantasy had crystallized into something almost real. That moment, when Rachel told her she was bisexual, her heart had pounded, her breath had caught, as she pretended, for an instant, that it was the beginning to a much bigger confession, one where Rachel told her she had realized she was bisexual because she was attracted to her, to Quinn.

Just like Quinn really knew she was gay because she had fallen for Rachel.

But, of course, it hadn’t happened that way, and Quinn was left with harsh, cold reality, and Rachel with boyfriends, once again.

Like Santana had told her, maybe it was really time to move on.

Her feelings for Rachel weren’t a constant aching pain. In fact, they had been less clear the more she got immersed in her schoolwork at Yale, only to come rushing back with a vengeance any time they had visited each other. She’d be sure she was nearly over her crush only to be confronted with a million reasons it should return every time she saw Rachel (her _eyes_ , her _smile_ , her _big heart_ , her _ambition_ , her _talent_ , her _kindness_ , her depth of _forgiveness_ , her _beauty_ , her _voice_ , her _dreams_ ). Occasionally, she considered spending less time with Rachel, because if they had enough distance, maybe those feelings could go away permanently. But, she has to admit that there is something about Rachel that always draws her back. Something beyond her attraction. Even when they weren’t being the best of friends and weren’t being totally honest with each other, there is a comfort between them that Quinn loves. They feel _good_ together. It is rare that she feels so at peace just sitting beside someone on a couch, and she isn’t ready to give that up. Not unless she somehow, someday, finds a friendship just as potent.

But, moving on. She can try to do that.

Maybe she won’t visit Rachel for awhile (except she had already hinted she’d probably come down for spring break in a week).

Maybe she can think about other things. Other _women_.

Her body still prickles, and a wave of desperate tingles floods over her in a wave. Her heart pounding, she puts her book aside, gets up to check again that the door is locked, and gets her hand mirror.

Then, she is peeling off her Cheerios sweats and leaning back against her pillows, her legs spread in front of her.

She forces herself to look at the mirror, at her own genitals, and _God_ , they’re _glistening_ and _open_ , and as she watches, they _pulse_ once, and a shudder runs through her. They aren’t… _ugly_ per se, she realizes now. Just…complex, messy, difficult to understand. A little _weird_.

Like herself, really.

She takes a deep breath, and tries to feel like this is a _part_ of her, like it _is_ her, instead of this strange attached piece she is disconnected from. And then watches, in the mirror, as her hand travels down to touch the little protruding nub of her clit.

_Oh._

It’s…different this time. Not like the last time where she rubbed and rubbed and didn’t feel anything. _This_ time, probably from the teasing, she’s primed, wet… _turned on_. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, those tingles and prickles and the almost _itching_ between her legs. She had barely been able to identify it. But as soon as she touches her clit, it quivers, and like an electric charge, she feels something, all over her body.

She watches her finger draw a little circle, moving over her…her _self_ and—

Quinn moans, a tiny, shaky sound.

Her eyes fall closed, and once again, she sees Stephanie’s flesh.

She imagines coming up behind her, while she’s in that bra and thong, and pressing herself against her back. Pressing her naked self against Stephanie’s ass, gripping at her breasts with one hand, pressing a rough, biting kiss on Stephanie’s shoulder.

Her hand moves a little faster, and pleasant sensations travel up and down her spine, and she drops the forgotten mirror.

She imagines Stephanie moaning herself, begging Quinn to touch her. It’s the thing that terrifies Quinn most, really, the thought of touching another woman _there_. What if it’s disgusting? She’d always thought that this part was supposed to be disgusting. The boys she had dated had never expressed much interested in touching it except with their dicks (well, that _one_ time, Puck had offered to go down on her in an attempt to sweeten the deal as they negotiated sex, but she had been shocked and disgusted and told him _no way_ ). It’s the weirdest, stupidest thing, knowing she wants women, and being terrified of having sex with them.

But now that she is touching herself and she is… _God_ , she is _horny_ , that fear vanishes, and in her imagination, one of her hands slides down Stephanie’s naked stomach and dips _right_ into her thong, _right_ into all that wetness and warmth and…

 _God, help me_.

She wants to touch. She wants to taste.

Keeping with the fantasy, she pauses her touches to raise her own fingers to her mouth. And…the taste is…she isn’t sure what she expected. But not this. It isn’t quite delicious, but certainly not disgusting. She has no idea how to describe the flavor—tangy, yet earthy, yet—but it isn’t gross.

Her heart is thudding madly with all of the things she is doing right now. Fantasizing about sex with women. Touching herself. _Tasting_ herself.

She doesn’t let herself think too hard about it as she frantically moves her hand back down to touch more.

She doesn’t know how long she touches like this, her mind sometimes concentrating on the movement of her fingers, sometimes on the fantasy of Stephanie’s flesh beneath her hands. But it’s probably for at least five minutes, just savoring everything.

Her own hips are moving a little bit in response to her touches, and in her mind, she makes it Stephanie’s hips that buck against her hand, while she bites and suckles against Stephanie’s neck.

“Please, Quinn,” Stephanie moans, except…it’s not with Stephanie’s voice.

It’s Rachel’s voice she hears in her head, and she shudders harder, and tries not to, but…

The images flash faster, out of control, without context. Rachel’s lips, parting seductively. Stephanie’s breasts in her palms. Rachel’s eyes, fluttering closed. Stephanie’s ass in that thong. The smooth plane of Rachel’s stomach. Stephanie’s soft, warm curves under her hand. The way Stephanie shuddered as she came on top of Quinn, morphing into the way Quinn would love to see Rachel, shuddering and moaning with Quinn’s hand between her—

It sneaks up on Quinn, a little. She has a sense that something about the sensations are changing, becoming stronger, coiling in her guts like a winding spring. She’s barely aware of the way her breathing is changing, becoming shorter, and she’s gasping, but she’s so focused on her myriad of thoughts—her struggle to fantasize about her roommate instead of about Rachel—that when the tension breaks, she doesn’t have the forethought to keep quiet.

She moans, and though it isn’t extremely loud, it’s louder than she likes, but there’s not much she can do about it. Her hips buck hard, and like a wave, her back arches up until she flops back onto her pillows. The sudden reaction of her body knocks her hand away from what it was doing, and the sensations seem to catch, to stutter. There’s _more_ there, she realizes in a flash of almost panic, and her hand leaps back, touches more, and the sensations are shorter, less intense. There’s a sense of desperation in her body, of missed opportunity.

She just had her first orgasm and, she realizes, it could have been _better_.

It’s hard to believe, she thinks, as she lays back against her pillows breathing hard, her legs having fallen limply to the side. She stares at her hand, then cleans off her fingers mechanically, tasting again that strange flavor. She feels the wetness inside her thighs.

Moments later, she jerks her sweats back up roughly, suddenly overwhelmed with fear and guilt. What if someone heard her? What if Stephanie had come _back_ , because she’d forgotten something, to find Quinn with her legs spread wantonly? She should have at _least_ hidden in the shower or something!

Not to mention… _God_ how could she think of Rachel that way?

It was…different to think about Stephanie. They had fooled around before, there was always the possibility it could happen again, and if what had happened in the room tonight was any indication, Stephanie might be interested. But _Rachel_ …

It was just _wrong_. She had constructed a fantasy about Rachel, about what Rachel would look and sound like in bed, from all her intimate knowledge about her friend. Moments she was privy to due to their close friendship; the way Rachel would sometimes whimper lightly in her sleep, the smell of her hair, the way her lips would part unconsciously when tall, dark and handsome David Boreanaz would appear as they watched _Buffy_ , the way her eyes smoldered during solos in Glee club, especially when she sang them to Finn…

The way that Rachel would sometimes look at her, her eyes bright and open and just…Quinn could swear that Rachel had a special look for her, and sometimes, it made butterflies erupt in her stomach.

But using that knowledge to _masturbate_ to was disgusting. _She_ was disgusting.

She tried to finish her schoolwork, alternately grinning at how amazing her orgasm felt and brooding on the thoughts she used to make it happen.

 

_Maybe I would have been something you’d be good at_

 

Stephanie stumbles home drunk fairly late. Quinn can hear Lucas whispering outside the door, so at least he kept an eye on her and made sure she got home okay. Quinn isn’t quite asleep, but she pretends to be, while Stephanie bumps around the room. She heads to the bathroom a few times—Quinn is pretty sure she’s throwing up—but again, she just lays there. The last time Stephanie was loopy, things _happened_.

She does, however, note that Stephanie strips nearly nude to get into bed.

The next morning, Stephanie is fine again. No hangover, just brimming with energy and elation about how much fun she’d had out with Lucas. Quinn tries to smile, but she’s worried, mostly. She ends up having to head to the library in the afternoon because, without homework herself, Stephanie seems to have decided to just have a solo dance party in their room. She’s blasting (Quinn has to check what it is because she doesn’t know it) System of a Down, of all things, and dancing around the room. Quinn leaves soon afterwards, because it’s impossible to concentrate.

She’s working on a short essay for her Freshmen Seminar, actually succeeding in concentrating on it, when a pleasant voice quietly greets, “Hey, Quinn.”

She glances up, jolted out of her thoughts, but immediately smiles, “Oh, hey Rob. What’s up?”

He shrugs, “Looking for a book,” he smiles wryly, lifting up a copy of _One Hundred Years of Solitude_.

“Ah,” Quinn nods.

Rob slides into the seat across from her. “Working on an essay?”

“Yeah,” Quinn grunts. She’s glad for the break and seeing him, but she isn’t sure how long she wants him to stay. She was kind of on a roll with the essay.

He nods for several seconds longer than is necessary before saying quietly, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, lowering her laptop screen so that she can really look at him.

He’s still nodding, “Is there…anything between you and Stephanie?”

Quinn gulps almost audibly. She carefully evades, “What makes you ask that?”

He smiles humorlessly, “Ah. I see. Well, I was just wondering, because, when I met you two, I had a sense you were close, and since you came out, I guess the pieces fell into place.”

“No,” Quinn shakes her head, “I didn’t mean to…make you assume anything. It’s just…no, there really isn’t. We…” she hesitates. She’d wanted this to remain a secret. So she tells half the truth. “We made out once. That’s all. There isn’t anything there.”

“Ah,” Rob nods, leaning back thoughtfully, “Okay. So…I just wanted to be sure.”

Quinn watches him, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I’m…interested in Stephanie. I don’t have a lot of hope that she’s interested in me ‘cause she’s kinda outta my league, but I figured I’d try. I know I’m a little bit older, but I don’t think it’s so bad. She’s pretty mature for her age, and there’s nothing that restricts advisors at the radio station from dating undergrads. It’s different for almost any other advisor position, but…not there, because I really have no power over them. My job is administrative, basically.”

Quinn stares some more. She shouldn’t be surprised, she supposes. Stephanie is very charismatic, very attractive. It’s natural Rob would be interested.

“So, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t stepping on anyone’s toes. I…I mean, I can tell Steve is definitely over it, but you, I wasn’t sure of…”

“You’re not stepping on my toes,” Quinn assures, “My toes are nowhere near there.”

He smiles faintly, “Good. Good, I’m glad. Thanks, Quinn.” He stands up and holds out a fist for her to bump. She does so, giggling despite herself, at this scrawny Jewish boy in his slacks and long coat and collared shirt, offering a fist bump. He just nods in satisfaction, pulls his headphones back over his ears and tugs his newsboy cap back on his head, then strides toward the exit, standing tall.

Quinn deflates, slightly, and stares at her essay for a long while. There _isn’t_ anything between her and Stephanie, she reminds herself. And…she doesn’t _want_ there to be, does she? Stephanie insists she’s straight. Stephanie can be horrible when she’s grumpy. They’ve definitely had a lot of good, fun moments in their friendship, but those had soured since they had that _experience_ together. Quinn is sure that, for her, becoming involved with Stephanie again, even just physically, would be playing with fire.

Still, there’s a part of her that _wanted_ to. That had happily fantasized about her in order to successfully masturbate for the first time. If Stephanie got involved with Rob…Quinn didn’t think she could continue to fantasize about her in good faith. It would be too close to cheating, something she’s done enough.

It’s as if, at every turn, her options for how to deal with Rachel get erased.

She hasn’t even heard from that girl she gave her number to at the GLBT club meeting. Not that she really minds. She hadn’t been that into her anyway…

She sighs. Maybe it’s a sign, that she shouldn’t be focused on her romantic life anyway. Maybe she can just distract herself with her abundant schoolwork.

Right.

She focuses back on her essay and tries not to think too hard about anything else.

 

_Suppose I kept on singing love songs just to break my own fall_

 

Rachel feels guilty.

It’s definitely not a new feeling in itself. Guilt is a strong motivator, and any time she’d felt like she might be disappointing her dads, she’d feel guilty for all they had to go through to have a daughter, and try to be better. It’s probably one of many reasons why she _is_ a performer; she was groomed to be one, and further prompted to excel with guilt. It’s lucky she enjoys it.

This is a new flavor of guilt, though. It’s guilt for failing a friend.

Rachel hasn’t had too many friends she’s felt so strongly about that guilt is such an issue. But right now, when she thinks back on her conversation with Quinn about Jesse, and thinks how that meeting between them went, she realizes that Quinn had been somewhat right about Jesse’s intentions—he _had_ wanted to use Rachel, however benign and mutually beneficial. She remembers that Quinn had sounded hurt. And though she’d felt guilty before for many reasons with regard to Quinn, her motivations had always felt excusable. They didn’t, right now, because she can’t place them.

She just got home from her date with Jesse, and she’s undressing slowly, thinking more than paying attention to her movements. Santana is at work and Kurt seems to be asleep already, so she has ample solitude to work with.

Why had she not listened to Quinn? She feels like she had been trying to make a point to Quinn, about forgiveness, maybe. That maybe forgiveness wasn’t part of Quinn’s nature, but it was part of Rachel’s.

Still, that isn’t true. Quinn forgave her a lot. Quinn forgave everyone a lot.

What was it about what Quinn had said that had pushed Rachel? Why had she felt so defensive of Jesse?

Maybe it was Quinn’s insinuation that she might have advised Rachel not to even give _her_ another chance. Yes, perhaps that was it. That must’ve been why Rachel had been inspired to give Jesse another chance. Because everyone deserved it.

Rachel sighs and rubs at her forehead. What _was_ it about Quinn’s advice that she always wanted?

Quinn had always seemed so put together to her. Even when she was pregnant and alone, she held herself as though she was perfectly fine, as though she meant to be where she was. She always seemed so smart and wise, even when her life seemed to be a wreck.

Rachel had always admired her. Rachel had always wanted to have a reason to talk to her. Rachel had always wanted to be more like her.

So why had she never listened?

She falls back onto her bed and stares at the ceiling, trying to think back on their conversations. So often, she can remember _knowing_ Quinn was giving her good, solid advice that she should follow. Hard advice. Advice she didn’t want to hear, but needed to. When it came down to it, she just wasn’t strong enough to follow through.

She wanted to be _close_ to Quinn. She wanted Quinn to be a part of her issues and struggles.

Was she that selfish, that she would constantly try to draw Quinn into such things?

And then there was the whole thing about imagining being with a girl, that had happened toward the end of her date with Jesse.

What on _earth_ was wrong with her that she could imagine being romantic with a girl until it came time to be public about it?

Rachel Berry is _not_ homophobic.

Unless, perhaps, she _is_. A little bit. In the sense that she is _terrified_ of being perceived as gay.

She feels her belly clench hard.

She’s spent her entire life watching people she loves—her fathers, their friends, Kurt—being hurt and bullied and rejected and discriminated against for being gay. Is it any _wonder_ she doesn’t want to draw the same kind of treatment to herself?

But, that would mean…she probably _is_ legitimately bisexual…and she’s been lying to herself because she’s afraid.

 _That_ terrifies her. She’s fully capable of lying to herself. She’s done it enough, when she told herself that sacrificing her career for her relationship with Finn was best. When she told herself she was ready to marry him. She just can’t believe she could possibly lie to herself so _convincingly_ that she could never date a woman.

That film noir girlfriend appears in her mind again, and Rachel imagines the way she might hold her, imagines her coming home with flowers, and… _yes_. There _is_ something in her brain and body that _wants_ this. It’s just that, to her, relationships have been so public, because in high school they were all about her having something to _prove_ , that she’d never given herself the chance to imagine the small, intimate moments that _really_ define them, when she’d thought about being with women. She’d imagined the big, scary moments: being out to fancy dinners and events, thanking a woman in her first Tony acceptance speech, marriage proposals…things that made her want to laugh and run away when she imagined trying to do them with women.

Until now, when she’s been forced to face that fact that it’s her own internalized homophobia that’s made her so terrified to admit to anyone, even to herself, that she’s bisexual. _And_ biromantic.

It’s terrifying that any girlcrushes she may have had are legitimate _crushes_.

She thinks of the way Quinn has always made her feel: on edge, alight, careful, self-conscious. But also safe. Strong. Talented. _Amazing_. And Quinn herself…she’s always thought Quinn was beautiful, strong, intelligent, passionate and just… _amazing_.

When Quinn had given her those Metro North passes the first time, Rachel had stared at her in wonder, and for the first time, considered that all the strange feelings she’d had for her over the years might _be_ something. She thought there might be… _potential_.

But then Quinn had reminded her that she was still engaged to Finn, and she’d reminded Quinn that Puck was important to her, and she’d buried those thoughts again, to be mostly forgotten (except for _pangs_ here and there as their friendship evolved) until Santana had pressed her to think of a girl she’d had real feelings for.

She’d mentioned that potential. That terrifying little moment of potential that she now knows was downplayed in her mind.

She has to set things right with Quinn.

She calls Quinn, who answers tiredly, “Hey.”

“Hello, Quinn,” she replies, some of her own exhaustion in her voice, “May I ask what you’re doing tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow…” Quinn sounds momentarily bemused, then says, “Well, I mean, Spring Break starts next weekend, so I have a few midterms during the week, but…I mean, I’m pretty much finished with my homework for the weekend…why do you ask?”

“I…really wanted to see you,” Rachel says decisively, “I was wondering if I could come up. Just for the day.”

“Um, yeah, sure. That’s no problem, Rachel. It’d be great to see you. Is…is everything okay?”

“Yes. I think so. I know you were talking about coming down here for Spring Break, but I wanted to see you sooner.”

“Okay,” Quinn sounds a little wary, “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes. I will arrive in the late morning. I’ll have to check the schedules but I am hoping there is a train coming in around 11?”

“Probably. Sounds good. Text me your ETA and I’ll meet you.”

“Okay.” There’s a moment of silence, in which everything unsaid feels deafening, and she says, “Bye, Quinn.”

“Goodnight, Rachel.”

 

_I will lay down my heart, and I’ll feel the power_

 

Rachel spends her two hour train ride compiling her courage and rehearsing what she even wants to _say_ to Quinn.

She’s not entirely sure. She just knows…she needs to tell Quinn what she realized, she needs to _apologize_ to Quinn for never listening, she needs Quinn to know that maybe, the _real_ reason their friendship got so awkward was because Rachel wasn’t ready to accept what intimacy could _mean_ to her, that Rachel has trouble with the lines between friendly intimacy and romantic intimacy and she needs Quinn’s help sorting it out. Because _so many_ of her friendships had ended up with that kind of tension. She had been friends first with Finn and Puck, and had trouble with those boundaries with both of them.

Rachel likes rehearsals and she likes having a script to follow. Human social interaction is so complex. She knows that people _do_ rehearse by having a lot of conversations with a lot of people, but she hasn’t had all the social experience many other people her age do. So much of her rehearsal goes on by herself, in her head, and she only has a limited number of scripts to work with.

She has no script for how Quinn will react to any of the things Rachel may end up telling her.

Quinn meets her at the train station, looking more rumpled than she tends to allow herself to appear in public, like she had to hurry to get out of bed. There’s a palpable hesitation before they hug one another, and Rachel pulls away before a few seconds have passed.

“Hi,” she smiles.

“Hey,” Quinn nods, one hand running through her hair in a way that seems unconscious. She nods once, to herself, and begins to lead Rachel away.

“Have you had breakfast?” Rachel asks her.

Quinn grimaces slightly, “I guess you can tell I sort of just got out of bed, huh?”

“Just a guess. I’m sorry to have cut into your sleep time.”

“Nah,” Quinn shakes her head, “I would’ve needed to get up around this time anyway. But no, I didn’t have breakfast. Do you mind if we stop someplace on our way back to campus? That way we don’t have to deal with the dining hall. That food’s overpriced if you don’t have a meal plan.”

“Okay,” Rachel nods. They stop at a Dunkin Donuts, where Quinn gets a full breakfast with juice and coffee and Rachel, not very hungry, just gets a bagel.

They sit at a little table together, and Rachel watches as Quinn dips her hash browns in ketchup and lifts the bun of her sausage, egg and cheese to smear some ketchup on it. A part of her just wants to launch into why she’s here, but she takes in the way Quinn closes her eyes as she sips her coffee, and the tightness in her forehead smoothes away somewhat. The things Rachel wants to talk about, she needs Quinn to be lucid for.

So she just tries to enjoy her plain, dry bagel and lets Quinn wake up. When Quinn is finished with everything but her coffee, they stand back up and leave to huddle together at the nearest bus station. Quinn isn’t wearing a hat or scarf, Rachel notes. She doesn’t know whether Quinn was just too tired or if she’s becoming a New Englander.

It’s a little after noon by the time they get to Quinn’s dorm room. Rachel drops her messenger bag by Quinn’s bed—she didn’t pack an overnight bag, since they both have class tomorrow. Stephanie isn’t there, so Rachel inquires politely, “Where’s your roommate?”

Quinn shrugs, “I think she went to the library. She thought she’d finished her homework on Friday but I guess when she woke up today she realized she wasn’t happy with some of what she’d done. So she’s redoing some of it.”

“Oh,” Rachel answers, and sits primly on Quinn’s desk chair. Quinn just shrugs again, and as the awkward silence returns, Rachel starts to build up her courage a little bit. But Quinn reaches for a remote control on the little entertainment center and turns on the TV.

Rachel exhales. Quinn has to know she’s here for a reason, that she wants to talk, but she doesn’t seem keen to let her. Rachel gets that, she supposes. Almost any time she’s come to Quinn to talk, for serious reasons, it hasn’t exactly been fun. She gets that now. She gets why Quinn isn’t ready.

“Anything good on?” she asks uncertainly as she gets up from the chair to sit next to Quinn on the bed.

Quinn grimaces, “Nah, probably not. Want to watch _Ally_ or something on Netflix?”

“How about _X-Files_?”

Quinn looks at her then, with a small uncertain smile. Generally, they playfully argue over which of the two to watch, and each argues for the _other_ show. Clearly she doesn’t quite know what to make of the fact that neither of them feels like maintaining the game. Rachel just knows she would rather be distracted through a few episodes of the _X-Files_ rather than _Ally McBeal_.

So they watch some _X-Files_.

And order some pizza.

And generally spend a good three hours or so just relaxing together on Quinn’s bed.

Stephanie comes back at one point, looking haggard. She forces a cheerful smile and greeting for Rachel, but doesn’t say anything to Quinn except, “I’ll be out for awhile longer.” Quinn just nods and watches her as she leaves, her shoulders hunched uncomfortably.

When the pizza arrives, Quinn pauses the show to go retrieve it, and when she comes back, she doesn’t resume the episode. They sit and eat pizza on the bed together, mostly silent, until they’ve eaten about half of their first slice each. Then Quinn swallows and meets Rachel’s eye. “So. Why did you want to see me so badly?”

Rachel inhales slowly, and everything is suddenly crashing around in her mind. She almost never forgets lines, but the few times she has in rehearsals, it feels exactly like this. Most people say their minds go blank when they forget their line, but not Rachel. Her mind just gets filled with so _many_ lines that she can’t remember which one is right. She thinks of Finn, and the way they both fought over him. She thinks of Jesse, and Quinn being right. She thinks of all the times she sought advice, she thinks of being slapped in the bathroom at Junior Prom, of Quinn standing at Senior Prom and tearing Rachel right out of Finn’s arms when she did so, remembers Quinn telling her “You can’t,” and “Just wait,” and a broken, angry Quinn whispering harshly, “She’s sleeping with Puck.” The comfort of their touches—hugs, early on, then sitting close on the couch, then cuddling in bed. The ways they’d tousle—not physically, like boys did, but emotionally, with subterfuge and words. She thinks of all the little moments when their eyes would meet and spark fire in her veins—fire that was part fear and admiration and trepidation and passion and unnamed desire all in one.

And all the things Rachel thought to say are gone, and what comes out of her mouth, in slow fragments, is, “I have these…little feelings for you…that keep getting bigger.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Lead Belly, “Where Did You Sleep Last Night?” (well known as a Nirvana cover), “Cold Song” from Purcell’s King Arthur (I like the Klaus Nomi version though), Cake, “Friend is a Four Letter Word,” Nina Simone, “22nd Century,” Massive Attack, “Dissolved Girl,” Purity Ring, “Saltkin,” Tegan and Sara, “Call It Off,” Regina Spektor, “Fidelity,” and Bonnie Raitt, “I Can’t Make You Love Me.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Helen: Santana's sarcastic gay coworker friend, currently not on speaking terms because Helen feels like Santana lied to her and used her  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, Stephanie took things a bit further than Quinn was prepared for, things were weird, but improving  
> Steve: Stephanie's ex-boyfriend, also a Yale student, not doing well in classes  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, Quinn's friend, one of her better Yale friends, wants to be an active gay ally  
> Rob: Quinn's Yale friend, Stephanie's advisor at the radio station, gay ally  
> Lucas: Gay classmate of Quinn's, irritates Quinn because he sucks up, but she is getting used to him  
> Jeremy: Male lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hook up at Gretchen's party  
> Gretchen: Female lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hash out their misconceptions of each other and land on mutual respect, if not quite like  
> Angela: Santana's gay coworker that works during the day, knows Helen, went on an awkward semi-date that flopped when Santana told her she was in an open relationship  
> Stu: Santana's direct superior at work, kind of a lazy manager


	36. There'd be no distance that could hold us back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story now has an OC Guide in the end notes of every chapter, since I know sometimes OCs are hard to keep track of. I've also gone back and added OC Guides to previous chapters to make the whole experience easier. This only appears on AO3, as FFnet makes it more irritating to modify anything.

_There’d be no distance that could hold us back_

 

_I have these…little feelings for you…that keep getting bigger._

The moment she hears those words is a living cliché for Quinn. Time stops. Or really seems to. For a long moment, all she’s aware of is the way her heart rate has picked up, an audible roar in her head.

Rachel is staring at her, pale and wide-eyed, and Quinn tries to clear her throat to speak. “Feelings?” she asks, tentatively.

Rachel looks away, eyes closing, “I’m so sorry. I know it’s out of line, and just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you’ll feel the same way, but I had to tell you what’s been _happening_ to me. What I’ve started to realize. I’m having feeling _s_ for you.”

Quinn is shaking her head, “Feelings. Like…feelings?” It’s such a stupid question, but it’s about all she can manage. This doesn’t feel _real_ , and she’s terrified that her stupid hopeful heart is turning something completely innocuous into the confession she’s always fantasized about.

“Yes,” Rachel whispers, “I _know_ it’s not fair of me, especially when I’ve presented as mostly straight to you the entire time we’ve known each other, and now that you’ve come out I’m suddenly having _feelings_. It’s not really fair but…I don’t know. They’ve been there, a little. They’ve just been growing, and I’ve become more aware of them. I’m sorry, though. I just had to tell you.”

 _Oh, God_.

“I…” Quinn starts. She pauses, feels a jolt of fear in her stomach, and pushes past it, “I’ve had feelings for you, too. Off and on, for awhile now.”

“You…you have?” Rachel asks breathlessly. Quinn can see her throat work as she swallows. “And…and are your feelings…off right now? Or on?”

It’s not a difficult question, really, but Quinn does take a moment to try to take stock of herself. She’d been trying to move _away_ from these feelings for Rachel, tried, albeit halfheartedly, to try to find someone at Yale to give her attentions to, but… “They’re on,” she confesses quietly.

“Oh,” Rachel says, faux casual.

They’re staring at each other now, and Quinn feels the tension and anxiety rising in her as she feels her body react to the conversation. The rush of adrenaline, the pumping of her heart, the dryness in her throat. Nerves. She’s surprised she’s not shaking, but then, training with Coach Sylvester had more or less suppressed obvious outward displays of stress. Rachel is trembling, and Quinn can feel it. She’s twisting her fingers together in her lap and biting her lip.

“So…what does this mean? What do we…do with this?” Quinn asks.

“I…I don’t know,” Rachel admits, “I…I really didn’t expect your response. I never would have dreamed you could possibly be interested…”

“Why not?” Quinn asks, frowning and genuinely curious.

Rachel shrugs a little, “I mean, I don’t want to dredge up the past, but…some of your behavior in high school certainly displayed repulsion.”

Quinn sighs, pained, “It…really wasn’t like that. I was never repulsed by _you_ , just…your social standing. And I needed to act like it. God, half my insults weren’t even _about_ you, it was just…things I’d heard, before. Do you really think I came up with Man Hands to refer to you?” She holds up a hand, trying not to grimace. Her hands are long-fingered, veiny, not particularly graceful or feminine. At least they’re soft, she thinks. Her mother had politely called them piano-player’s hands. The girls at her school hadn’t been nearly so polite.

Rachel looks at her sympathetically, _tenderly_ , and raises her own hand to hold up to Quinn’s. Her palm is warm and soft against Quinn’s, and she just looks at the way their hands look pressed together. Rachel’s is smaller, more feminine. Her nails are even painted pale pink; Quinn hasn’t bothered much with nail polish since she started college. The contrast couldn’t be more evident between them, as to who _really_ had the man hands…

Quinn doesn’t want to see the contrast anymore, so she does what feels entirely natural at the time, and entwines their fingers. They both stare, more, at the way their hands look, held between them, their skin, their grips, their nails.

They look back at each other’s faces, but don’t let go of each other’s hands; instead, they place them, together, on the bed between them. Their pizzas lay next to their hands, totally forgotten.

“So…” Rachel says slowly.

“So?” Quinn asks.

“So we…like each other.”

Quinn wants to laugh, because _like_ is such a mild word for how strongly Quinn feels, but instead she just nods, “We definitely do.” She pauses, and asks again, “What now?”

Rachel again looks uncertain. “Just last night, I told Jesse I really didn’t _want_ to be dating anyone right now.” She twists her mouth, “And that’s…well, it is mostly true, but I suppose, had I thought there was any potential between us, you would be the only exception I’d consider right now.”

Quinn swallows hard, “I’d more or less thought the same thing, that I didn’t have time to date, but…I’ve always been happy to make time for you, since we started school. It’s just, for me…I’m not sure I know _how_ to date a girl. I’m barely out at school. I’ve barely done anything with women. I don’t know _how_ …” she trails off.

“I really don’t know either,” Rachel confesses, and looks guilty, “It’s…it’s been really hard to accept that I have feelings for you, in part, because it’s been really hard for me to actually imagine myself with a woman. That’s why, so recently, I was still saying that I wasn’t interested in women romantically. I mean, I know that I am _now_ , but…it took some wrestling with myself. And I think I still need to wrestle with some of my fears about all this.”

“So…do we actually want to date, or…?”

“Yes,” Rachel murmurs, “I do. I just…”

“We need to take it slow,” Quinn suggests.

“Definitely,” Rachel agrees, and peers up at Quinn through her lashes nervously, “You’re still coming down to New York for your Spring Break, right?”

“Of course,” Quinn assures. They were supposed to have a great time hanging out as friends, but now…what was in store for them now? Her stomach flips pleasantly. Her Spring Break is almost two weeks long. She’d thought about maybe going back to Lima to visit her mother for one of those weeks, but now…maybe she would rather spend both of them in New York.

“Maybe we can take this week to really process this,” Rachel suggests, “Figure out exactly what we want when we see each other next weekend. Figure out…what it’s really going to mean for each other…if we want to be together.”

Quinn smiles a little at this. Her heart is still pounding, and adrenaline is still spreading over her body in palpable waves, but most of her is still trying to figure out if this is _real_. Because it feels completely surreal. Every little sound in the room is amplified: the electric sounds of the TV, Rachel’s breathing, the little rustles of her comforter as they shift on the bed…it’s…every tiny detail of realism echoes in her brain, still feeling ultimately completely unreal.

“Is this really happening?” she blurts, her tone dreamlike.

Rachel giggles breathily, “Somehow, yeah. I really think it is.”

They gaze at each other more, and Quinn watches Rachel’s eyes, they way they move over Quinn’s features. The way she licks her lower lip nervously. She examines the shape of Rachel’s face, her gorgeous prominent cheekbones, her full lips, deep, dark eyes, unapologetically stately nose…there had always been something about Rachel Berry, something about her expressive, refined features that had always attracted Quinn, long before Quinn knew how to understand her feelings.

Then, Rachel’s eyes widen and she glances around, “What time is it?”

Quinn reaches for her cell phone on the bedside table and checks it with her free hand, still holding Rachel’s hand with the other. “A little after four.”

“Oh, damn,” Rachel sighs, “I should really head back home. I have a few things I need to work on tonight.”

“Oh,” Quinn nods, concealing her disappointment, but then she admits, “Yeah, me too.”

Rachel stands and begins to gather her belongings. Quinn watches awkwardly for a few moments, still feeling completely surreal, until she stands and begins to put on her shoes.

“I’ll come with you,” she offers.

Rachel shakes her head, “No, you stay here. If you come with me…I’m afraid I’ll never be able to make myself leave,” she offers a shy smile.

“Oh. Okay,” Quinn agrees.

They stand in front of each other, just next to Quinn’s door, and stare. It’s ridiculous how much time they’ve spent just silently looking at each other today, but the moments feel far from silent in Quinn’s body and brain. Both are a chaos of desire and feeling and a sort of delicious anxiety.

“Well,” Rachel finally says softly.

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees, “Guess you’d better get going. Catch the next train home.”

“Can…can I kiss you?” Rachel asks then, eyes darting away to fix on Quinn’s lips.

That belly dip again. That telltale heart flutter. That rush of nerves all along her body.

“Yes,” Quinn breathes, and leans down.

Rachel meets her halfway.

And it’s…

It’s years worth of aching, suppressed, deferred desire. It’s sensing the _feeling_ behind a kiss and, for the first time, being able to return it. It’s imagining her heart is in tune with another. It’s more than fireworks. It’s a supernova, and it’s a symphony, and it’s an overwhelming feeling of relief.

It’s just a press of lips, just moving together slowly, nothing else, and it’s over too quickly, but that’s because Quinn is legitimately afraid she will never be able to stop.

Rachel breathes shakily when they part, her eyes fluttering back open as she settles back on her heels, and, “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d better go.”

“Yeah,” Quinn nods, but as Rachel turns, Quinn reaches out again, and there’s another kiss, much briefer, that leaves them both breathless once again.

“Okay. I really need to go now or I never will.”

“I know,” Quinn nods, and reaches past Rachel to open her door. Rachel steps out of the door, still facing Quinn, and smiles, “I’ll see you next weekend.”

“Of course,” Quinn smiles back, and watches as Rachel turns and begins to head toward the stairwell to exit the building. She glances over her shoulder so often she starts to walk crooked, and Quinn never stops watching, never stops aching to follow.

 

_I’m killing life like a one-way ticket to hell_

 

One of the things that sucks the most is how much more action his “work” cell phone sees than his personal one.

The first thing Puck did when he agreed to work with Malcolm and his friends was get a cheap phone and buy prepaid messaging only plan for it. No way is he giving the potheads of Lima his real cell phone number.

And that was the other thing. He only agreed to sell weed, no hard stuff. He remembers, even though he was a little boy, the way substance abuse and addiction destroyed his father and his parent’s marriage, and that was just alcohol, as far as he knows. He’s never bought the hype that weed is addictive and so he’s fine with selling that. Should be legal anyway, he thinks.

Despite all that, though, he knows he could get into deep shit if he gets caught. So he’s trying to be as discrete as possible. Which isn’t easy since he still lives with his mom and little sister. Sarah is such a snoop, it’s ridiculous. It used to be, the lock on his bedroom door was only used when he was in there and needed privacy, but now he’s started locking it any time he leaves the house. He can’t have her finding his wares while she’s snooping for whatever it is adolescent girls go searching for in their older brothers’ rooms (he really doesn’t want to know).

As for his mom…luckily for him, she’s still working a lot of evening and night shifts, which is when most of his customers drop by. And even if she’s home, she rarely seems suspicious if he decides to go hang out on the back porch with a “friend” for a little while.

Of course, the other thing that sucks about this is that half his work shifts are damn early in the morning, so needing to be able to do business with customers at night sucks sometimes.

But he is making money.

It gets to the point that he forgets to carry his personal cell phone with him for awhile. Because even the people he texts pretty regularly have dropped off a bit, probably because of midterms or something. He hasn’t even chatted with Santana for a little while, because she got exasperated with his constant “bathroom breaks” the last time they tried to watch a show together and customers kept showing up. She eventually asked him if he bladder was the size of grape and told him to invest in a catheter (he wishes he didn’t know what that was).

Then, one Monday, he realizes halfway through his shift in that late morning hour between breakfast and lunch that he forgot his phone. And in the next instant, he also realizes it’s his birthday. It’s his birthday and he’s turning twenty freaking years old and his life is so mundane he almost forgot.

And grins, because _today_ , finally, he’s sure to actually hear something from his friends.

But when he gets home around 3 o’clock, there are no messages waiting on his phone. Nothing.

It isn’t until 4 o’clock that the first one comes in.

 

 **kurt: Happy Birthday! I do hope you get  
** **something special.**

 

Not long after is.

 

**sam: Happy birthday bro. would love to  
hang out this week if ur available?**

 

He thanks Kurt, and then, hesitating only slightly, takes Sam up on his offer. Even though it feels like a pity hangout, he does want to spend some time with someone he actually considers a friend.

It isn’t until much later, when he’s falling asleep in bed, that everyone else seems to remember. The last two to text are Rachel and Quinn, both around ten o’clock, both apologizing; Rachel explains she is preparing for a callback and Quinn explains it’s the first day of her midterms. But they both tell him how much they care about him and that they hope he had a good birthday and that he should expect a package from them later in the week.

It’s enough to make him smile as he falls back to sleep, anyway.

Sam comes over on Wednesday afternoon, after school is over and after Puck is finished working his shift with Billy and showering the restaurant grease off his body (he still likes Billy alright, and likes working with him, but tries to keep their personal conversation at a minimum, since that last time when Billy told what were probably lies about his band). To Puck’s surprise, Sam is carrying his guitar case.

He raises his eyebrows at it, “What, are you here to serenade me for my birthday? Because, like, it’s cool. No need.”

Sam glances at his guitar and then chuckles, “No, but I should have thought of that. How’ve you been?”

Puck shrugs, “Okay, I guess. Working mostly. How about you?”

“Work and school,” Sam reports as Puck ushers him into the house. “Sorry we haven’t hung out in awhile. Guess we’ve both been busy.”

“Yeah,” Puck accepts the tacit apology easily. He guesses he could’ve called Sam or Artie or whoever instead of always waiting for them to call him. They just always seemed busier than he was.

Up in Puck’s room, Sam sits in the old armchair and gets his guitar out of his case. Puck watches as he tunes it, then asks, “Really, what’s with the guitar?”

Sam grins then, “I was wondering if you’d help me write a song.”

“Write…a song? Um. Why?”

Sam leans back and rolls his eyes, “It’s almost time for Regionals and Mr. Schue really hasn’t given us much help,” he says in an uncharacteristically bitter tone, “Everyone on the Leadership Board is saying we’ve had good luck with original songs in previous regional competitions, so we’re hoping to try that again. I figured I’d work on it with you, because you’re good at this stuff. Personally, I loved that song you wrote for Zizes that one year.”

Puck smirks, “Really? I figured Trouty Mouth would be your favorite song.”

“Don’t even,” Sam answers, pointing a warning finger at Puck. But he’s smiling.

“Okay, problem, though. I’m not in school anymore. If I write a song with you, it’s not exactly a New Directions original, is it?”

Sam shrugs, “The rule book really doesn’t say anything about _whose_ original song it has to be. I’ll list my name first if they ask, that should be good enough.”

“Alright…” Puck agrees uncertainly.

Several hours later, they have a decent start to a song about unrequited love. Sam reluctantly says that he has to go home and work on some homework, but thanks Puck, and says he’s pretty sure he can complete the song with what they’ve come up with so far.

As he shows Sam out the door, he feels a little sad. Nostalgic, he guesses, for that time when he used to see all his friends, almost every day. When they’d practice on the fields, work out in the gym, then figure out elaborate ways to text in class without getting caught, or to cheat on tests, or to cut classes. When they’d spend their weekends driving fast on the rural roads outside of Lima, drinking and getting into fistfights for fun, doing donuts in the parking lot of the abandoned K-Mart shopping center.

Sam wasn’t a part of most of this; he was more interested in doing what was right than what was fun. Nevertheless, even if they did fewer one on one friend things and more team things together, Puck has always felt comfortable around Sam. He’s always felt like they got each other.

There’s a pang about Finn for a moment, about the ways they’ve grown apart, but…Finn’s on the other side of the world.

All Puck knows is, he’s not waiting for Sam to contact him first next time.

 

_Forbidden fruit, hidden eyes_

 

One of the weird things about college at UCLA is that her school’s schedule never quite matches anyone else’s.  It seems like everyone else she knows has semesters, but she has quarters at her school. So, while everyone she knows is dealing with midterms and then going for Spring Break—mostly in early March, though some don’t have Spring Break until late March or even April—Mercedes is still in the middle of her Winter Quarter, and won’t take her finals until the end of March.

Of course, she’s also only a part-time student, so her schedule really revolves most around her recording deal. The work she gets from that is really erratic, some weeks intense and time-consuming, some weeks barely anything.

But life is good. Even if she feels extremely far away from everything and everyone, she still texts with Rachel sometimes—they have a lot to compare in terms of what they’re learning about music—and she Kurt have a little Skype session most weeks, despite how much busier he’s gotten. She texts Quinn, and every month or so they call one another.

And Sam.

They talk, well, not quite all the time, but a lot. Lots of texting, phone calls and Skype sessions when possible. And despite missing each other painfully, to the point that sometimes when they talk, Mercedes just cries afterwards, they feel stronger than ever.

That whole open relationship while being apart thing…it’s really working.

It means that when she misses him, she doesn’t have to feel completely alone and apart from him. She can go on a date with another guy—dates that mostly involve some chatting to see if they have chemistry, then a lot of making out, maybe some shirtlessness—and the whole time, know how much Sam is going to enjoy hearing about it. Know that talking about it is going to make him so happy. He’s there, in her mind, during the entire date.

While at the same time, she gets the flattery of knowing that she’s hot enough to attract as many guys as she likes.

It can be a difficult line to walk sometimes. There are still aspects of her sexuality she’s keeping private, even from Sam. So she has to make clear the guys she’s dating realize sex is off the menu, because keeping her virginity until marriage is still very important to her. And even last time she visited Sam, over Christmas, she still didn’t let him touch her…down there. She loves to give him handjobs, and they’ve masturbated together many times, mostly on Skype and once in person over Christmas (though she couldn’t quite come that time), but it took her a long time to build the courage to touch herself in front of him. It’s still hard to shake the feeling that some of what they’re doing is wrong. She wants to be sexual, she wants to liberated…in some ways. But she also wants to be true to herself and her concept of her faith.

These days, though, maybe because it’s been so long since she’s seen Sam, her dates feel like they’re heating up a bit. She has a date with a guy tonight that she’s seen a couple times before who…she doesn’t know why, but she feels less in control of the situation with him. But Sam loves the details of the way this guy goes crazy on her breasts and gets her so turned on, so…

They grab coffee—there’s always that component to her dates, even if she usually insists on paying for her own food or drinks. They sit and talk for a bit about the new season of _Community_ , but they don’t spend too long chatting. He has a fire in his dark eyes, and she’s already smirking.

She dates a lot of different boys, different races, different walks of life (science nerds with full scholarships, lazy music students, athletes, trust fund kids with no clue what to do with their futures, kids from poverty with full scholarships, kids working three jobs to keep up with school payments). She’s attracted to lots of different guys and loves that she has a chance to explore that. This guy, Miguel, is an athlete, fit, funny, much more interested in football than his classes. Maybe she’s so into him because he reminds her of Sam in some ways, but he’s got an aura of danger that Sam never even tried to put on. Maybe that’s part of the appeal, too.

They go back to her apartment—her roommates, a pair of female music students, are out—and it isn’t long before she’s peeling off his shirt to admire his abs and chest and shoulders, and he’s working hers over her head.

It’s taken some time, but she has gotten more comfortable with her body. Seeing the power her breasts give her over men has helped, as has the fact that she’s gotten a little fitter from all the walking she does around campus and the city. The act of taking off her shirt, which used to be difficult to do even for Sam, nearly impossible to do for Shane back in high school, is now something she does for Sam often, and does for the guys she dates. The way Miguel moans a little when he grabs her breasts definitely helps.

It’s all hands and mouths and touches over skin, discrete hickeys, and before long, the pressing swell of Miguel’s erection against her thigh.

She doesn’t think she’s ever been so hot for a guy she’s taken on dates. She touches him over his jeans, stroking as best she can, making him groan into her mouth.

He’s opening his jeans, pushing them down his hips, and she’s touching him fully.

It feels right. She’s good at this, she enjoys this, and she’ll love watching him get off. Usually her dates end with the guy in her bathroom, finishing himself off, but how is that any fun for her and Sam…

She’s stroking gently, slowly, but Miguel is still just as passionate as ever, his mouth on her breasts now, his hips rolling into her hand, and before she knows it, his hands are at her belt, fumbling, and his hand is sliding into her panties.

 _Oh_.

It feels incredible and yet…bad. Wrong.

“No,” Mercedes says.

“It’s okay, baby,” Miguel reassures, “I’m not trying to make you have sex with me, just…” he groans, and moves his fingers to gather wetness.

“ _No_ ,” Mercedes says forcefully, grabbing his wrist, “I’m not ready for that.”

Miguel withdraws his hand, “Shit,” he breathes, absently wiping his fingers on his pants, “Shit, I didn’t know. I figured since you were touching me…”

“No, I know,” Mercedes sighs, “I should’ve been more clear about my boundaries, because that stepped way over them. This got out of hand.”

“I’m sorry,” Miguel says again, looking scared and guilty.

“Me, too,” Mercedes agrees, “And you need to go.”

“I get it,” Miguel nods, hitching up his pants and adjusting everything back into place. Before he leaves, he pauses by the door, “I’m real sorry I fucked it up and made you feel uncomfortable.”

“I know,” she answers, “I’ll see you,” she offers by way of apology. She _won’t_ go on another date with him. Clearly, they’re too wild together, things went too far. But maybe they could be friends. Maybe. He’s a good guy.

She squeezes her eyes shut and gets her phone to call Sam.

“Hey!” he greets cheerfully, “Done with your date already?”

“Yeah,” she reports hesitantly, “Can we talk about it?”

“Heh. Yeah, of course,” Sam replies, and she can hear the eagerness in his voice. He clearly hasn’t caught on to her tone.

“No, wait, this is serious,” she tells him, “So…we were together, fooling around, and…he got out his…dick…and I started to touch it for him. You know, give him a handjob.”

“Oh,” Sam replies, and it sounds as though he’s thinking about it, “Well, you _are_ really good at those…” his voice is back to sounding slightly sensual, “Wait, you should start over. That’s going to be really hot to hear about…”

“No,” Mercedes says, “Because then he tried to reciprocate on me, and…he touched me a little bit, Sam. Somewhere you haven’t even gotten to touch me yet.”

“Oh,” Sam utters again, but this time the gravity is in his voice. “What did you…”

“Told him to stop and he did, told him to leave and he did. He didn’t know he was stepping over a line. I guess I should’ve been clearer to him what I meant about how we weren’t going to have sex.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, sounding like he just doesn’t know what to say.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah…it just sucks. I mean. You touching him, that gave me pause for a moment, but I realized I was okay with it because it’s something we’ve done together. But him touching you…that’s not something we’ve done together. So I feel…I dunno. It kinda feels like you cheated on me, I guess.”

“I feel like I did, too,” Mercedes replies, “I’m so sorry. I let it get out of hand.”

“It’s not your fault,” he tells her automatically, “It sounds like he went there before you could stop him.”

“…the thing was, I kind of wanted him to, a little. I just…I lost sight of things for a minute.”

“Oh.” There it is again, that little syllable of disappointment.

“Listen,” Mercedes tries to reassure, “I’m going to close this relationship, right now, until we’re feeling better about things. Both of us. Because this is really about us, not anybody else. And I’m going to see if I can take the time to come to Lima for a little bit between Winter and Spring quarters. I can’t make any promises…but I want to see you. I _need_ to try to make this right.”

“I’m alright with all that,” Sam tells her, “I think it’s for the best right now. But, God, Mercedes, you don’t have to fly across the country and let me finger you to get me to be alright with what happened. I know we’ll get there. Just give me some time, okay? Let’s just be us for awhile.”

“Okay,” she grins a little, “I still want to try to see you.”

“I’d like that,” he sounds warm. “Listen, I’ve got to go, okay?”

“Okay,” she acquiesces quietly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Sure,” he agrees. They hang up, and she knows he didn’t have to go. He was ready to hear about her date and get off, after all.

He just needs time.

They’ve never hit a snag like this before.

 

_Everybody sees you’re blown apart_

 

Wednesday night, Steve says something that throws a loop in Quinn’s plans.

They’re actually all there, Steve, Sean, Stephanie, Lulu, Lucas, Rob and Quinn. Rob gets there last, apologizing for being late as he joins them. A few minutes later, Steve puts down his fork and clears his throat.

“So, I…Stephanie came to talk to me the other night about the two of us carpooling back down to Maryland together for break. And so, I was forced to tell her that, after break, I won’t be coming back to Yale.”

There’s silence for a long moment. Quinn stares. Stephanie looks sad, and Sean serious. She suspects Steve already told Sean about this, but the rest of them…probably not.

“Wait, seriously?” Lucas asks, frowning.

Steve nods slowly, “My mother has some health problems, and they’re getting bad. I’m leaving school to help take care of her.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Quinn tells him, genuinely. Of all the reasons to leave school, this is both the worst and best. The most heart-wrenching cause, but the noblest reason.

And it makes some sense. No wonder he wasn’t doing well in his classes. No wonder some days he couldn’t pull himself out of bed. No wonder he barely reacted when Stephanie dumped him.

“Well, I was pointing out how I probably wouldn’t be able to take her, because I’m not even sure I can fit all my stuff in my car. So she asked Lulu if we could borrow her van to get all my stuff home, and she agreed.” Lulu nods, sad eyes on Steve. “But then she suggested that we…well. That I ask if you guys would like to come with us, too.” He looks up from his plate now, looking at the faces of his friends in turn. “I haven’t known you guys for all that long, but we’ve had some fun together, and I value your friendships. If you want to take a seven hour roadtrip down to meet my family and to say goodbye to me, because who knows when we might see each other again, I’d be really grateful. With Lulu’s van and my car, we should be able to fit everybody if you all want to come.”

“I’d be happy to,” Rob answers, and Lucas nods seriously in agreement.

“Of course,” Sean agrees, “I could probably get my family to pick me up in Maryland for the rest of break.”

“I was going to go to New York…” Quinn begins, but instantly changes her mind when she thinks about what Steve is about to do, “But I’ll bet I could head to New York afterwards.”

Lulu nods, “I could drop you off in Baltimore. I bet you could get a bus or a train to New York from there easily.”

“Yeah, true. I’d love to come see you home, Steve.”

“Thanks, guys,” Steve smiles. And they all begin discussing routes, who rides with whom, what they should bring, everything.

Quinn takes the evening to think on it, to make sure it’s what she wants to do. In the end, the only conflict is selfish, she realizes. Ideally, she just wants to get to Rachel as soon as possible so they can kiss again, so they can talk about what they might be to each other. But she knows she’ll regret it if she doesn’t go with all her friends to wish Steve well.

So Thursday evening, she calls Rachel.

“Hey!” Rachel greets her, “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” she responds. It’s become one of the most common phrases they’ve used, since Rachel left her dorm on Sunday. They texted it Sunday night when Rachel got home. It was the last thing they said it to each other Monday night when they got off the phone and both texted Puck a late happy birthday. Quinn’s had too many midterms to focus on to call every night this week, and it’s so good to hear Rachel’s voice, even if she’s going to be delivering disappointing news.

“How’d your midterm go today?”

“Great,” Quinn tells her, “Almost ready for your callback?”

Rachel sighs, “Yeah. No matter what I do, I don’t ever feel ready for it, but it’ll be over tomorrow regardless.”

“You’ll do great,” Quinn reassures her automatically, because really, the concept of Rachel performing poorly for an audition still seems impossible to her. She’s glad she never saw the botched NYADA audition in high school; _that_ will never seem real.

“Thank you,” Rachel murmurs.

“I actually have something I need to talk to you about,” Quinn starts, then explains how Steve will be leaving school and that his friends will be going with him to bid him farewell.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that about Steve,” Rachel laments.

“I’ll tell him,” Quinn says, “But…I’m not entirely sure how long we’ll be down in Maryland. I just know that…obviously, I won’t be able to be in New York on Friday night.”

“Oh,” Rachel sounds subdued, as if this finally dawns on her, “Oh, Quinn, it’s okay. I mean. If you’ve decided you don’t want to spend your Spring Break down here, I—”

“What are you talking about? Of course I do! I’m just going to be later than I’d hoped.”

“I just…I don’t know. It all seems like…like maybe that conversation never happened sometimes, that I guess you having second thoughts feels plausible to me.”

“I am not having second thoughts,” Quinn tells her with certainty, “I just…it’s important to me to do this for Steve, too. Believe me, I wish I could be in New York on Friday like we originally planned. But I’ll still be there for most of those two weeks I’m off. And I can’t wait to see you.”

“I understand,” Rachel sounds relieved, “I hope it goes well. Let me know when I might see you, and I can’t wait.”

Quinn smiles, “I’d better go study for my last midterm tomorrow. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. Good luck!”

“Thanks. Break a leg at your callback!”

“Thank you, Quinn. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Rachel.”

Even saying her name now sounds different, feels different.

 

_Daddy I want you dead_

 

By the time Quinn gets out of her midterm, it’s a little before noon, most of Steve’s stuff has been loaded into Lulu’s van, and Sean has grabbed some sandwiches for Stephanie, Lucas and Quinn, who are all coming from the same midterm. Lucas has his duffel bag with him—he’d awkwardly hauled it to the midterm—so Stephanie and Quinn go upstairs to make sure they’ve gathered everything they need. Quinn has several bags, because she’ll be going to Rachel’s from there, but there’s room.

Lulu left the rear bucket seats in the van because everyone decided they’d rather sit there than in the middle seat of Steve’s sedan, and for the first leg of the journey, Quinn and Stephanie ride with her, and the boys ride with Steve. They have snacks, they have drinks, they have iPods, they have bags and boxes of Steve’s stuff (like any Freshman, he’d overpacked), and they’re good to go.

The most direct route goes basically through New York City, but Steve and Stephanie emphasize that it is hell to go that way, so they take a different route, that takes them a little more west through Connecticut and a sliver of New York state before they go south through Pennsylvania. It adds some time to the trip, but Steve and Stephanie assure that they’d lose that time in traffic anyway, and Lulu, who has tried to drive into and through the city many times, concurs. The only thing Quinn can think is that she’s disappointed that she won’t feel physically closer to Rachel during the drive. She’d half-fantasized about leaping out of the car if she’d noticed they were driving through an area familiar to her.

But she finds she can’t focus much on the fact that she’ll be waiting to see Rachel, because in spite of their reasons for driving down, they’re having a good time. Stephanie seizes control of the iPod, claiming that because she works at the radio station, she has the best taste in music. Lulu rolls her eyes at Quinn in the review mirror, but the music is good, they talk about everything.

They end up talking, at one point, about how they’ve all ended up at Yale, and how, perhaps, feeling like the odd ones out drew them to each other.

“I mean, I’m only in because I’m a minority,” Stephanie states bluntly, “Which, I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but man, that makes me feel like a commodity more than a student, you know?”

“I’m only in because my parents worked for the school, and I think they pity me,” Lulu responds with a shrug, “But, yeah, I’m not complaining.”

“How’d you get in, Quinn?” Stephanie asks with a grin, “I’m guessing your parents had ‘connections’ or something?”

She’s not serious, but it irritates Quinn slightly, “Not really. I mean, I maintained honor roll throughout high school, but I think my application essay helped. I, um, made some mistakes in high school and was briefly homeless, and I think writing about struggling through that appealed to them.” She meets Lulu’s eye briefly, and knows in that moment that Lulu remembers exactly what Quinn means. “In all honesty, if my parents hadn’t divorced, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to attend. My sister was only allowed to go to Christian colleges. She ended up at Messiah in Pennsylvania. From what I can tell she got a good education, but I would’ve resented having my choices limited like that.”

“Yeah, especially because you’re gay, that would’ve been rough,” Stephanie sympathizes. It’s the first time she’s said that about Quinn, and it’s a little surreal, considering what happened between them, but the comment itself is very nonchalant. “I’ll admit, when I met you, I thought you were just some rich legacy kid from old Republican money, even though I thought you were cool. And it didn’t bug me, because I still feel weird about getting in just being the color I am.”

“At least your education isn’t being comped because people know your parents,” Lulu shrugs, “I feel awkward, like I don’t belong, and like I don’t deserve what I have half the time.”

“Well, I’m on full scholarship, too,” Stephanie says, “and I know that without it, I probably couldn’t attend, because it’s not like my grandma was able to put aside much money for my schooling, but for god’s sake, Sean is practically as poor as I am, and he’s taking out god knows how many loans to afford this. And he has to do that because he’s white, and I’m not. Or, well, I am half white, but my half Native side is all they see.”

“Whereas I’ve got trust fund money to handle some of my schooling. In that respect, I guess I’m a bit old money. The fact that I even have it probably has a lot to do with my race,” Quinn admits.

“Thank god you don’t act like old money,” Stephanie gripes, “But this is exactly why some of the affirmative action stuff bothers me, because I feel like I was given my opportunities not because I deserve them, but because my race makes the school look better. I feel like equality should be earned and we can’t earn it if they keep just giving it to us. How does that look?”

“But don’t you think it’s a good way to take steps toward equality? Evening the playing field?” Lulu asks, eyes narrowed.

“Not as long as old white guys keep making money off of my race making them look good,” Stephanie answers bitterly.

Quinn doesn’t agree with it, but it’s an interesting counterargument, at least with regard to Stephanie’s own personal experience. She thinks again about passing for straight in everyday life, about appearing to be old money, and about how the people she ended up being drawn to at school were, well…like the New Directions, she supposes. The ones who felt like they didn’t quite fit in, because of their race or class or whatever. And she’s more thankful than ever that those were the people who were her support in high school, and that she didn’t stay just a Cheerio, who would have unhappily thrived in the conservative upper-class portions of whatever school she’d ended up in.

They stop for a meal around Scranton, and at that time, they switch up who is riding where, just a bit. Quinn switches places with Rob so that she’s in the car with Steve, Lucas and Sean. Lucas jokes that switching Rob for Quinn has doubled the testosterone in the car, and Quinn just punches him, more for the perceived slight against Rob than the lesbian joke. Lucas just laughs and claims she proved his point, which is when Sean offers her the front seat so that she doesn’t have to sit next to him.

After some time in which the boys mostly discuss video games that Quinn has never even heard of, Steve glances at her. “So, I’ve been wanting to talk to everybody about what to expect when we get to my parents’ house.”

Quinn nods, “Oh, sure. Of course.” She abruptly wonders if this is a good idea. Is it okay to have a group of college kids invading the home of a sick woman?

“The house is on the large side,” Steve says, “and I’m the youngest, so my brothers are scattered around the country with their own families and jobs and everything. That’s part of why I want to be the one to come home, it’s the easiest choice. My point is, there is definitely room for everybody to sleep. We’ll probably all end up in the basement; that’s where my bedroom is. And really, don’t worry about imposing on my parents. The basement is practically an apartment all on its own. My dad will be happy to cook for us, or order us a pizza or whatever for as long as we’re here.”

“Okay,” Quinn nods.

“As for my mom, I just wanted to give everybody an idea of what to expect, because I know all I’ve said is that she’s sick. She has ALS.”

“ALS?” Quinn asks. She knows she’s heard of it, but doesn’t know anything.

“Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

“Oh,” Quinn answers. That sounds more familiar, but isn’t much more helpful.

“It’s a neurological disease that gradually destroys motor neurons. Which means that, a year ago, my mom could mostly still walk around and things, though she was clumsier than normal, but now she’s in a wheelchair—more for her own safety, because she can still walk some—and has trouble speaking.”

“Oh,” Quinn answers again, then offers, “That’s awful.” She thinks about how she was in a wheelchair as a result of something so sudden, something she was so sure she could beat. How frustrating would it be to have to fight day by day to _not_ end up in one, even though it is inevitable?

“She’s entirely lucid, though. She just has trouble getting around and writes things down to communicate because it’s easier than talking sometimes. She’s a funny woman, she used to be so active. She’s optimistic. Some people only live a few years after diagnosis, for some people, they reach a certain point and degeneration stops, some people live decades after diagnosis. She’s not afraid of dying soon.” He pauses. “I think my dad is a bit afraid, though.”

“I’m sure she has many years ahead of her,” Lucas offers, taking the focus off Quinn.

“I think she does, too,” Steve smiles, “I just didn’t want you guys to be alarmed when you met her. I wanted you to know what’s going on with her.”

“Thanks for telling us,” Quinn nods, “I guess I was assuming cancer or something.”

“It’s always scary to see someone sick,” Steve says, a note of compassion in his voice, “But educating people on what exactly is going on always helps. Her brain is fine. Her body still mostly works, it’s just giving her trouble.”

Quinn just nods. The conversation isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it is weird. It’s the most serious thing she’s ever discussed with Steve, it’s pretty personal, and it _does_ put her in the uncomfortable mindset of what she would do if either of her parents got this sick.

The thought that she has no idea about the state of her father’s health, and the moment that she wonders if she would even care if he weren’t well, only crosses her mind for a moment before she pushes it away.

By the time they make it to Cumberland, where Steve lives, they’re all hungry. Steve’s house is in a nice suburb, not grand or fancy, but big and comfortable and built on a slope so that the front door enters the first floor of the house and the back door enters the basement. They’re greeted by Steve’s soft-spoken dad, who greets them all with grins and handshakes and promises of a big pot of spaghetti that’s almost ready. But first, they begin to unload Lulu’s van, filling up Steve’s little basement bedroom with piles of bags and boxes. Then, they’re shuffled into the kitchen and seated at the big table, while Steve heads back to his parents’ bedroom.

There’s small talk with Steve’s dad, who is finishing up making dinner, and then they hear Steve reentering the kitchen, and see that he’s pushing a wheelchair.

The woman in the chair really isn’t old. She’s probably about Quinn’s father’s age, and Quinn has always felt like her parents were older than a lot of her peers’; Brittany’s mom had her when she was twenty-two, whereas Russell was approaching his mid-thirties when Quinn was born. Her hair is peppered with grey, and her body is lean. Not the kind of lean that makes her look sick and malnourished, but like a retired athlete. She has a cane next to her on her wheelchair, and honestly, if it weren’t for the wheelchair itself, and the way her hands tremble in her lap, Quinn wouldn’t know she was sick at all.

Steve introduces them, and his mother smiles at them in turn, then opens her mouth, and slowly manages a broken-sounding “Nice to meet you.” She sighs and rolls her eyes, grinning apologetically.

“Don’t be shy to use your white board,” Steve’s dad tells her cheerfully.

“Only when needed,” she manages to respond stubbornly, grinning wickedly.

She sits next to Steve’s dad, who helps her during the meal when her arms don’t seem to respond properly to her desire to use her utensils, and conversation is pretty normal. During the meal itself, she seems to find it easier to write on the white board, which leads to a few awkward pauses as she takes the time to write, but conversation is good, and she’s included, and she even manages to crack a few jokes that are still funny even with the pauses in dialogue. Quinn realizes almost immediately that she quite likes this woman, and there’s a rush of frustration to know that she’s terminally ill.

There’s also a rush of fear to realize that someone else she knows could lose a parent. Finn lost his father when he was too young to know, and though she’s never heard Kurt talk about his mother much, she knows that he was pretty young, too, and did most of his growing up with just his dad; he certainly felt and knew her loss, but he was at a malleable age. Steve is almost an adult, which somehow makes the loss _scarier_ to her. Steve will understand what’s happening, Steve will realize he can’t change it, Steve will have to be a part of her medical care, her end of life decisions. Steve will have to be there to hold up his father after he loses his wife.

They linger after the meal is over, still chatting. Steve’s parents are great, but Quinn can’t stop being overly conscious about his mother’s mortality. It’s weird to befriend somebody who she’s sure will be gone soon.

They spend the weekend at Steve’s, mostly hanging out in the basement and playing video games, and on Saturday afternoon, they take a hike at a nearby state park. It’s a great time, and a very chill farewell to Steve.

Sunday evening, the night before they’re going to head their separate ways for the rest of their break, Quinn is in the side yard helping Steve hang up a hummingbird feeder.

“I have…what might be a weird question,” Quinn starts awkwardly.

Steve glances at her and shrugs, “Shoot.”

“I…this is weird. So, I don’t have a good relationship with my father. Okay, I really have _no_ relationship with my father right now.” Steve just waits for her to continue, and she struggles to find the simplest way to sum up her father. “We had a great relationship when I was little, I was his little girl, but he found out I…did some things in high school that he didn’t approve of, and he kicked me out of the house. I was homeless for several months, until my mom kicked him out, they got divorced, and she brought me home.”

Steve is staring for a moment, then blinks and says, “That’s…really awful. Wow. I’m so sorry.”

She shrugs, “It’s okay. I mean, I’ve mostly moved on. It took some time, but my mom and I are basically okay, now. But my dad…I haven’t talked to him since he kicked me out.”

“I can understand why,” Steve responds, sounding angry on her behalf.

“But that’s my question, I guess. I mean, getting to know your family, like…the fact that your mom is probably terminally ill, it made me wonder about my dad for the first time in awhile. Because she’s amazing, and if something like this can happen to an amazing mom…I dunno. I don’t know.”

“What are you asking?” Steve asks, looking confused and a little melancholy.

“I guess, if you were me, would you want to not have contact with your dad anymore?”

Steve looks thoughtful, and leans against the tree that the hummingbird feeder now hangs from. “I don’t know. On the one hand, your dad sounds like a terrible person. But you did say you used to have a great relationship. And I mean…coming from my own point of view, it’s not like my relationship with my parents was always perfect. I was always pretty close to Mom, but maybe not so much Dad. We’re doing better now, because we’re both focused on Mom, but…And, this is something I talked with Lulu about. When her dad passed away, she was wrestling with all this guilt because a part of her wished it had been her mom.”

“Her dad died?” Quinn asks, “When?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? This was before we knew her, like two years ago. She doesn’t mind if people know, I’m surprised she never told you.”

“I guess it never came up,” Quinn responds, frowning. She feels kind of awful, for unloading some of her problems on Lulu, but never asking what was going on in her life.

“Anyway, Lulu’s dad was who really held her family together, the way my mom does. And she thinks her mom senses and she and her brothers…not that they really loved their dad more, but they were closer to him. It’s the same with my mom, and I know my dad is struggling with knowing he’s going to have to step in to be that center of the family, just like Lulu’s mom struggles with thinking her kids miss their dad more than they’d miss her.”

“That’s…ouch.”

“Yeah. It’s the last way we want our parents to feel. But I guess all I know is, no matter which parent of mine was sick, when it comes down to it, I’d grieve just the same. And the more people I meet who are around my age and have lost parents, the more I’m glad I still have mine, for however long it will be.” He shrugs, “I mean, yeah, talk to your dad if you think you’ll feel better. If you don’t think it’s going to do anything but open up old wounds, don’t. If you think, though, that you’d be at all sad to find out he’s dying…reach out. I guess that’d be my advice. Who knows? He could be feeling so awful he has no idea how to even approach you.”

It’s something to think about. Quinn _is_ still very angry at her father, but…he is her father. And a part of her still loves him for who he was to her as a child.

But if he ever found out who she was now…Quinn also knows she could probably never have a real relationship with him again.

Still, realizing how many people her age she knows who have lost parents makes her wonder again about her own. Maybe she’ll at least ask her mom if she knows at all how he’s doing.

But she doesn’t spend much time thinking about her dad, because now all she can think about is the fact that she’s going to see Rachel tomorrow. She barely sleeps that night, as she shares one of Steve’s brother’s beds with Lulu. Because now she’s back to remembering that dream-like moment, a week ago, when she was _finally_ able to admit to Rachel that there were feelings. That there had _been_ feelings for…longer than she was able to admit.

She wonders how it will feel to kiss her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Death Cab for Cutie, “The New Year,” Foxy Shazam, “Killin’ It,” Portishead, “Sour Times,” Paul Simon, “Graceland,” and Le Tigre, “Bang! Bang!”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, Stephanie took things a bit further than Quinn was prepared for, things were weird, but improving  
> Steve: Stephanie's ex-boyfriend, also a Yale student, not doing well in classes  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, Quinn's friend, one of her better Yale friends, wants to be an active gay ally  
> Rob: Quinn's Yale friend, Stephanie's advisor at the radio station, gay ally  
> Lucas: Gay classmate of Quinn's, irritates Quinn because he sucks up, but she is getting used to him  
> Lulu: Quinn's Yale friend, takes the Feminism seminar with her  
> Billy: Puck's coworker, about his mom's age, fellow cook at the diner  
> Malcolm: Puck's coworker, fellow cook at the diner, his age, high school dropout, also a drug dealer  
> Miguel: Introduced this chapter


	37. Let me take the friction from your lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Lots of intimacy of various pairings in this update, so proceed with caution.

_Let me take the friction from your lips_

 

Lulu drops her off in Baltimore on her way back to New Haven with Lucas and Rob. It’s almost noon when they’ve navigated through the city to get Quinn to the bus station, and by the time she’s arranged her ticket and sat on the bus for about four hours to make it to Port Authority, it’s dinnertime.

There’s no phone service in the lowest level of the bus depot, so because Quinn is angrily scowling at her phone and willing it to send the text to Rachel that she’s here, she made it, it takes her a moment to even realize that, when she comes up the escalator, Rachel is barely ten feet from her.

Quinn stops. People stream around her on both sides, dragging luggage, but for a moment all she can see is Rachel, in a winter hat with faux fur and earflaps and a pea coat, bare legs and the hem of a skirt peeking out, gripping her own phone tightly in her hand and staring, smiling anxiously.

She moves, then, dragging her own luggage, and Rachel moves toward her, too, and it’s almost immediate but not quick enough how soon Rachel is in her arms. She buries her nose down, trying to get to Rachel’s hair under that ridiculous earflap, trying to breathe in her scent, her floral shampoo, her vanilla lotion, _her_.

Rachel draws away just enough that Quinn takes it as an invitation, and moves a hand up to Rachel’s jaw to gently steady her head. Rachel’s eyes are dark, nervous and inviting, and Quinn dips her head down to kiss her.

It’s a brief kiss—they’re in public, after all, and the _reality_ of it makes Quinn’s heart hammer so hard she can’t ignore the sudden wave of self-consciousness and slight _terror_. She draws away, feeling breathless. “Sorry,” she murmurs, “I just…I couldn’t resist.”

“Don’t apologize,” Rachel’s voice trembles, “I had no desire to stop you.”

That makes Quinn grin, shyly, and Rachel’s expression relaxes similarly, until Rachel is reaching for the handle of Quinn’s luggage and saying, “Come on. We have to switch trains to get home from here, very exciting!” Rachel wiggles her eyebrows, and Quinn snorts.

By the time they make it back to Rachel’s apartment, it’s settled into a strange sort of awkwardness, because this part is so familiar. This is the part where they are _friends_ , where they sit together and order takeout and watch TV together. Where they enjoy the company of Kurt and Santana, people who Quinn is very much not interested in seeing right now, because she wants Rachel alone.

But there’s Kurt, bustling around in the kitchen, making a quesadilla, and Santana, still in her pajamas, watching _Bob’s Burgers_. Santana glances over and lifts her chin in greeting, “Fabgay.”

“Shut up,” Quinn returns. Santana shoots her a smirk and Quinn feels weirdly exposed, because she _knows_ Santana knows, and she _knows_ Kurt knows, not just about her being gay but about her feelings for Rachel, and she’ll be under their scrutiny, and she’s not ready to tell anyone what she and Rachel are still figuring out.

“Be nice,” Rachel chastises Santana, who ignores her, while Kurt lifts a spatula in greeting to Quinn, who waves in return.

When they close the door to Rachel and Santana’s bedroom, Quinn feels like she can breathe again. Rachel gives her a shy smile as they tuck her luggage into the corner of the room. “You okay?” Rachel asks quietly.

“It’s _weird_ all of a sudden,” Quinn confesses.

“I know what you mean,” Rachel murmurs, “I haven’t told them anything, but I _want_ to, but I want things to get settled between us first.”

“Same,” Quinn says briefly. Rachel reaches over to rub her back, and Quinn can’t help that her eyes dart to the bedroom door, as if anticipating that Santana will walk in the moment they do anything remotely affectionate. Rachel glances, too, and her hand drops. She smiles nervously. The door being closed is conspicuous in and of itself, so they exit the room quickly.

It turns out that, to save money, Rachel has gone shopping for lots of meal components so she and Quinn don’t have to buy restaurant meals every day that Quinn is visiting for the next almost two weeks. Rachel offers to make some pasta, but Quinn just shakes her head and says she’ll make it. She’s starving, and she can guarantee she’ll make it faster (and better) than Rachel might (though Rachel is getting a lot better at cooking; she would have starved if she weren’t). Santana’s head lifts and turns, and she casts an interested glance toward Quinn, who is currently taking over the stove Kurt just vacated, and Quinn rolls her eyes and agrees to make enough for Santana.

And the evening is surreal. They try to act like nothing is different as they sit with Santana and Kurt and eat dinner while watching TV. Kurt ends up going to his room fairly early to wind down after a long day, and Santana heads to work not long after.

Quinn and Rachel sit on the couch together, continuing to watch TV, for several more minutes before Rachel finally turns to Quinn and asks, “Should we…go to the room?”

“Yeah,” Quinn answers. She follows Rachel into the bedroom she shares with Santana, her body humming. She can’t wait to kiss again.

When Rachel pulls her down next to her on the bed and connects their lips, Quinn sighs in contentment and scoots closer. Despite the fact that it isn’t the first time Quinn has kissed a woman, it _feels_ like it is, and she doesn’t know where to put her hands, or really how to position their bodies, so she leaves her body awkwardly stiff and still while their mouths move together.

Given that they’re doing nothing but kissing, it actually continues for quite awhile before Rachel finally pulls away and murmurs, “We should talk, huh?”

“Yeah,” Quinn rasps. Her voice is barely working, probably because she’s so breathless.

“So I…” Rachel begins, then stops, and frowns. “I don’t know how to start this.”

Quinn shrugs, “I don’t really either.”

“I’m scared,” Rachel admits.

“You and me both,” Quinn acknowledges.

“I just…” Rachel’s mouth twists. “It’s stupid and cowardly. But a part of me is scared to make this public because I don’t want to see the negative reactions we might get. I only just realized that…women were an option for me recently. I haven’t yet digested the fact that I may face discrimination for being a sexual minority.”

“I’m scared of that, too,” Quinn admits. It’s really just the tip of the iceberg, for all the things she’s afraid of. She remembers the look on her father’s face when he found out she was pregnant and she just imagines it, magnified, on the faces of everyone she knows, when they find out.

“But I want to _try_ with you!” Rachel says passionately, “I really do.”

“I’m scared of messing up our friendship,” Quinn blurts.

“Yes!” Rachel replies, “I am, too. I tried so hard, and for so many years to be your friend. And we are, now. I never want to lose that. I want you in my life, always.”

It’s bittersweet to hear, because a part of Quinn worries that this is probably impossible. They probably _will_ fuck this up, and never talk again, and Rachel will find a nice leading man and get married and have a perfectly non-queer appearing life, and Quinn will just have a nurse her broken heart like she has for the past like, _three years_ , or…

Yeah, it scares her to lose Rachel, to lose the one person who always seemed to believe in her. The one person she always believed in in return.

So she just smiles, tries not to think too hard about it, and says, “I want to be in your life always, too. And if we stop here, and now? We’ll already have ruined our friendship. We’ll regret this.”

“You’re right,” Rachel nods.

“So…” Quinn says.

“We should try this.”

“Yeah.”

“…Can we keep it quiet? Just for now?”

“Yeah,” Quinn nods.

“I might want to tell Santana and Kurt, after your break. I don’t want them to know while you’re here.”

“I don’t know when I want to tell my friends at Yale. Maybe after break. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Rachel smiles. “So these weeks you’re here…are our weeks. Just us.”

Quinn laughs, a little, “Well, Santana and Kurt will be here, too. And they might think it’s weird if I don’t want to hang out with them.”

Rachel scoffs a little, but smiles. “We’ll hang out with them, of course. But when Santana goes to work…this room is ours.”

There’s a glint in Rachel’s eye that causes Quinn’s stomach to leap. “Oh. Um.”

“And this bed, of course,” Rachel smirks.

Quinn can feel herself blushing, “I…I don’t know.”

Rachel laughs a little, “God, you’re so _cute_ when you’re flustered. The bed is for sleeping, silly. And making out, of course. But I know we’re not ready for anything else.”

Quinn swallows, because just hearing Rachel talk about “anything else” is putting all kinds of images in her mind.

Rachel is grinning up at her, and, stomach flipping, Quinn leans over to kiss her again, her hand now threading into the hair on the back of her head. It’s more natural now, like her body is waking up. It’s not at all like making out with boys, when she was overly conscious of everything her body did, trying to both keep him interested and keep it tame. This is what _feels_ right. What she _wants_ to do. And it isn’t long before Rachel is pulling her to lay next to her on the bed, still kissing.

She’s getting better at this making-out-with-girls thing.

 

_Feelin’ is easy, I know_

 

She has a date.

She, like, _kinda_ had a date a few weeks ago, but that was in the context of a Brittany-approved dalliance.

Now, it’s like a legit date. She’s unattached (officially, if not really in her heart), and she’s going to go out for dinner with a cute blonde.

It’s Friday night, and Quinn has been here most of the week. They hung out a little bit Wednesday night when Santana was off, although apparently because Quinn and Rachel had spent the day wandering around after Rachel got out of class, they were tired and went to bed early. Whatever. She has to admit she’s been looking forward to Quinn’s visit, has kind of wanted to find a way to sit her down and tell her what happened between her and Brittany, but even when Rachel is in class, Quinn is apparently off doing her own thing. It’s weird. And next week is Rachel’s spring break, so she and Quinn will probably be attached at the hip like a pair of awkward unrequited twins.

Quinn really is a stupid lovesick puppy. Not that Santana knows anything about _that_.

It’s around 6 in the evening, and Quinn and Rachel have come back from whatever they were doing in the city, giggling as they enter the apartment and stomp rock salt off their shoes. Kurt is still at work, so Santana hasn’t been especially careful about remaining entirely dressed in the apartment. She’s currently in black jeans and a bra.

Rachel and Quinn both kind of stop when they notice her standing there. Rachel appears pretty neutral—they are fairly used to see each other in various states of undress—and just says, “Hello, Santana! Aren’t you off tonight?”

Quinn, on the other hand, is averting her eyes _completely_ , in an embarrassingly obvious way. It makes Santana want to smack her. They spent _years_ together in the Cheerios locker room, there’s no reason to be so modest _now_. So Santana answers, “Yeah, I’m off. Tell Queer Fabgay to chill. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.”

Quinn glares, and she is blushing now, so Santana smirks. Rachel, however, is assessing her appearance more now, “I was expecting you to be in lounge clothes, I suppose. Do you have plans?”

“Yeah. Unlike _you_ people, I have game. I’m going to get laid tonight.” Well. It’s not a sure thing. But she’s pretty sure she can make it happen.

They both stare at her with arch expressions until Rachel shakes her head, “Right. You and Brittany are open, I keep forgetting that.”

“Maybe because Santana hasn’t gotten laid from it before,” Quinn shoots.

“That _you_ know of,” Santana growls, hoping it doesn’t sound like the lie it is.

Quinn doesn’t have an easy retort, so she ignores them as they go back to focusing on each other, sitting down together to eat takeout and watch TV, and continues to get ready for her date.

She meets Angela in downtown Brooklyn, this time for Thai food, and it’s snowing lightly, on top of some afternoon accumulation. Angela’s dressed in a long skirt and a red jacket, a somehow very appealing combination, with flakes of late winter snow sticking to her beanie. Santana grins, and they lean in for an awkward hug.

“You can get meat this time,” Angela smirks as they go inside together.

“Thank god,” Santana rolls her eyes, “Keep it up, you might get somewhere.”

Angela laughs a little, and they head inside. There’s silence as they peruse the menu, but once they order, Angela rests her elbows on the table and says, “I really was sorry to hear about you and your girlfriend breaking up.”

Santana shrugs and looks away, “Well. She says it’s a break, until she moves up here, so, I’m really not in the market for a girlfriend.”

Angela snorts, “Please, I’m too old to date you. I’m not looking for a girlfriend either.”

She’s _barely_ older than Santana, really, but it makes her feel like a kid for a moment, and it’s an uncomfortable feeling.

Dinner is good, and they talk a little about television, and playfully complain about work. Afterward, Angela reaches for the check, and Santana totally lets her. She makes more and gets more hours than Santana, after all.

“So,” Angela smiles, once they’re standing outside of the Thai place.

“If you’re asking if I’m DTF, the answer is yes,” Santana smirks.

Angela laughs, “Man, you make this so easy. You’re the perfect fuckbuddy.”

“You have no idea,” Santana winks, and cringes because it’s cheesy as hell, but it makes Angela laugh again.

“So, where to?”

“Well, uh, my place is kind of out of the question. I don’t have my own room…”

“Ah. Right. Okay. Well, we should be able to go to my place. My roommates might be home, but I doubt they’ll care.”

“Cool,” Santana nods, “Let’s go.”

They get on the train, and Angela’s stop is several before Santana’s, in a slightly nicer neighborhood. They catch a bus to her apartment, which is a small three bedroom. A lady probably in her late twenties gives them an unconcerned greeting as they come in and take their shoes off next to the door, and they basically go straight to Angela’s bedroom. It’s small and crowded with furniture, books, and a messy desk covered in school supplies.

Santana does what she always does when she starts an encounter with Brittany: she takes control and starts taking off clothes.

Except Angela doesn’t really cooperate. She just laughs a little and says, “What are you doing?”

“Getting you ready to go,” Santana replies. She gestures to Angela’s clothing. “These are in the way.”

Angela shakes her head, “Damn, someone’s eager. Haven’t you heard of foreplay?”

“You mean fingering and oral? Yeah, let me get to that.”

There’s a long pause as Angela regards her, then says, “Okay…let’s back up a moment.”

Santana huffs, but drops her hands, “Sorry, what?”

“I consider fingering and oral to be sex.”

Santana chuckles, “Well, _yeah_ , so do I, but everybody else calls it foreplay.”

“That’s what I mean. Foreplay means something different to me than what some straight people might call foreplay. I mean, maybe you’re ready to go already, but I’m not.”

“What do you want me to do?” Santana frowns.

“I’ll show you,” Angela says, and presses Santana against the door.

She’s kissing her, and trailing her hands over her body lightly, really not even touching anywhere that interesting. She just keeps kissing, trailing her lips over Santana’s face and neck, until Santana starts to feel uncomfortable with the level of tenderness being shown here. She tolerates it until she finds herself pressing back, trying to gain leverage to unpin herself from the door.

Angela moves back, and smiles a little, “See? You’re getting even more worked up.”

Santana takes stock of her body for a moment and realizes it _is_ kind of true. But it’s half from erotic tension and half from discomfort with this sort of contact. “So you want me to like, kiss you for an hour to get you wet?”

Angela laughs and pulls her toward the bed, then reclines on it, “Well, kissing helps. Touch me, too. Touch my tits. You can pin my wrists, too, I like that.”

So Santana does. Maybe it’s being on top, being in control, and the fact that kissing all over Angela like this feels less like they’re in some flowery romance novel. She kisses harder than Angela kissed her, and palms her breasts with more force, but Angela seems to like it, if the way she’s bucking her hips up and giving encouraging little “ _yeah_ ”s is any indication. Santana moves her own hips away, and grins wickedly at the groan of frustration this earns her.

She reflects that, with Brittany, there was never much need or even much _time_ to warm up like this. They learned about sex from each other, they knew Freshman year how to get each other off. And so much of it was in secret, with the terror of being discovered, that it was quick and dirty, and something they anticipated _so much_ that they were both dripping the moment they were alone together.

They just had some _connection_ , where just words or a look were enough foreplay for them, to the point that Santana never even thought about the ways they’d kiss and play before sex to be foreplay at all, just affection. But, Santana reflects, that isn’t what she has with Angela. They have to learn each other. And topping her like this… _yeah_ , it’s doing it for Santana. She’s getting so horny she’s practically on fire.

When she goes to remove Angela’s clothes, this time, she lets her, and when they’re down to their panties, they’re grinding together, Santana circling her hips down into Angela’s. Angela moves and shifts, but can’t seem to find a comfortable way to grind back, so she flips them, and tosses Santana onto her back, and asks, “Tell me what you like.”

Santana shrugs awkwardly. It’s surprisingly difficult to talk about, with someone who isn’t Brittany.

Angela watches her face, “Let’s just stick with hands, for tonight?”

“Sure,” Santana shrugs.

“How do you like to be touched?”

Santana squirms, “Well, touch me and I’ll tell you.”

Angela is pulling down her panties, and touching, gently, with two fingers, rubbing and circling, watching Santana’s face, searching for a reaction.

Santana isn’t really sure what to do but breathe as she waits for a touch to feel right, but for the first several moments, it’s just _awkward_ , being touched by someone who doesn’t know just the right amount of pressure, the right pattern of strokes.

“Do you like to be touched inside?” Angela asks.

“Sure,” Santana croaks, and hears herself moan as fingers slip inside. And then there’s a thumb on her clit, and Angela is leaning over her, kissing her harshly—perhaps taking the hint from the way Santana kissed her before—and nibbling and sucking on her lips and neck and breasts.

It’s takes a bit of time, before Angela’s hand does something Santana’s has never quite felt before. Something about the way her fingers twist and press inside, the way her thumb presses rapidly, makes Santana’s eyes bulge and a desperate noise escape her.

“Is that okay?” Angela asks.

Santana moans affirmatively, and Angela smirks and repeats the action, lowering her mouth again onto Santana’s nipple. Santana lifts a hand to grip Angela’s hair, and the orgasm builds so quickly that Santana’s really doesn’t even have the foresight to try to be quiet as she erupts with moans.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” she murmurs, vision clearing.

Angela chuckles, “Are you okay there?”

“Yeah, I…how did you…?”

“Trial and error,” Angela shrugs, “You’re not very talkative, you know.”

It’s playful, but it makes Santana feel a bit sheepish. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s weird, I guess, figuring out how to do this with somebody new.”

“Here I thought you were gonna rock my socks off,” Angela smirks.

Santana sits up, “You haven’t seen anything yet.” She wrestles her onto her back, pinning her hands, “You sure seemed to like it when I was in charge,” she rolls her hips down, pressing her thigh between Angela’s legs.

Angela stifles a gasp, “Yeah. I do like it. And I like to be finger fucked, hard and fast and deep. If you’re good enough, you’ll probably just barely need to touch my clit.”

Heat rises on Santana’s face, but she’s not blushing, it’s arousal. “Is that a challenge?”

“You up for it?” Angela smirks.

“Fuck yeah,” Santana promises, and, keeping one arm pinned, starts peeling Angela’s underpants off her legs.

She guesses there might be something to be said for straight up saying what you want, because she gets Angela off in two minutes. And she barely touches her clit.

As they lay next to each other, not cuddling, just comfortably catching their breath together, Santana reflects that she’s had sex without feelings before, back when she was having sex with men. There were different motivations then, different objectives. This is sex purely for the pleasure of having it with someone she enjoys and is attracted to, but is not connected with intimately.

And she wants to do it again. It was different. It was fun. It was surprisingly easy, and she realizes gradually that even if she is in no way over Brittany, she doesn’t feel guilty or hurt that the woman she just had sex with wasn’t her.

If nothing else, she’s acquiring new skills to bring to the bedroom to wow Brittany when they are back together.

 

_Play the game, namely love, play it like you have nothing to lose_

 

She goes home after a few grateful kisses with Angela and promises to do this again sometime soon. Quinn and Rachel are both sitting in the bedroom on Rachel’s bed, which is weird because they’re not in pajamas yet, so she goes back out to the living room to watch what _she_ wants on TV. Their loss. Still, she actually manages to fall asleep before dawn. The excitement of all the sex must’ve worn her out a bit.

So she wakes up around noon, quite early for her, and ambles out into the kitchen to get some coffee started. It probably takes a full minute before she realizes Quinn is sitting on the armchair, reading a book.

“Hey. Where’s Rachel?” she asks sleepily, because so far this week they really haven’t been apart.

“She works at the clothing store today,” Quinn reports, “I figured I’d head downtown to meet her a little later this afternoon.

“Ah. Kurt?”

“I’m pretty sure Rachel said he had a fashion shoot to work on today.”

“Good for him,” she responds without much emphasis.

It isn’t until she’s sitting down on the couch with her breakfast that she realizes that she can _finally_ talk to Quinn alone, tell her about Brittany.

“So. We’ve got to talk.”

Quinn casts her a dangerous glance and says quickly, “No we don’t.”

Santana is hurt, “Um, why the fuck not? What did I do to you?”

“Nothing.”

Santana tries to think, “Did…did _she_ talk to you already?”

“Well we are _obviously_ talking,” Quinn responds with an eye roll.

Santana’s not sure how it’s at all obvious that Quinn and Brittany have been talking, “Listen, if it’s about last night—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Quinn snaps.

“If you _have_ been talking, you’d know it’s obviously not a problem. I have every right to do what I did last night.” She wonders if Quinn is _really_ going to judge her so hard for doing what Brittany would have okayed even if they _were_ still together. Is Quinn _that_ hostile to open relationships?

“I…” Quinn stops. She looks at Santana. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?” Santana asks, baffled. “I’m here trying to tell you something important and you’re getting all defensive about god knows what.”

Quinn rubs at her face and sighs, “I’m sorry. I thought…never mind. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Well,” Santana swallows and looks down into her cup of coffee. “Brittany and I broke up.”

Quinn stares at her, speechless, for a long moment, “ _What_?”

Santana shrugs, “It’s…a thing. It’s supposed to be a break, because she’s still planning to come up here after high school, and we’ll get back together then. But for now…we’re broken up.”

Quinn is shaking her head, “That’s…I never thought that would happen. I’m so sorry, San.”

Her eyes feel teary, then, and perhaps it’s because it’s the nickname that mostly Brittany uses for her. She shrugs again, because she doesn’t know what else to do with her body language. “It’s okay. I mean, at least I know it’s not forever. And in the meantime, yeah, I’m absolutely going to have sex with other women.”

“Well. That’s good,” Quinn is abruptly prudish, even her posture is different.

They sit in silence for a few moments, while Santana eats, then Quinn ventures a question, “So does this change your mind? About how you need to start preparing for your own future and not just rely on Brittany’s?”

“Fuck off,” Santana responds, “Nothing has changed. Our futures are still together.”

“I just think—”

Santana interrupts, “No, we’re not talking about this. Instead, we’re going to talk about what you _thought_ I was talking about at the beginning of this conversation. What happened last night that you are freaking out about?”

Quinn’s mouth snaps shut. “Nothing,” she grits out.

Santana scowls, “Well, it can’t be seeing me in a bra, because that’s nothing new. It can’t be me getting laid, because like, I can only think you might be jealous, not pissed. It must be…something to do with Rachel.” At Quinn’s sour expression, she presses, “It is, isn’t it? What’s happening to you? Fuck, you’re not getting yourself hurt, are you?”

“No,” Quinn deflates a little.

“Then _what_?! Tell me, Quinn. Anything that gets you _this_ defensive is something you have to talk about.”

Quinn sits with her arms folded for almost a full minute. Santana just sits silently and resists the urge to even continue eating her cereal or drinking her coffee. She just looks past Quinn, non-threateningly, and waits.

Finally, Quinn speaks. “We…didn’t think we were quite ready to tell anyone, but I think I do want to. Rachel and I are…together.”

Santana stares, “Wait, _together_ together!?” She blinks, “Damn, how did that happen?”

“She realized she had feelings for me, and of course, you know how I’ve been feeling…”

“But she…”

“Yeah,” Quinn gnaws her lip, “I know. She thought she wasn’t capable of romantic feeling for women. But the way she is with me…I mean, I can’t read her mind, but it sure feels like there are romantic feelings…”

“Well, good,” Santana frowns, “So what’s got your panties in a twist?”

Quinn’s mouth twists, “Other than being terrified she’ll realize what she’s feeling for me isn’t romantic? I’m scared of screwing it up.”

“Well, sure,” Santana says reasonably, “I felt that way with Brittany, because she was the first person I was with that I really felt something for, you know?”

“Yeah,” Quinn answers emphatically. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.” She looks at Santana, “I was going to ask how not to mess it up, but…”

Santana looks away, “We didn’t really…fuck it up. Distance fucked it up. But hell, Quinn, this is obvious. What was the thing that nearly destroyed your friendship?”

“Finn?” Quinn asks, scowling.

Santana rolls her eyes, “Okay, sort of, but no. You guys weren’t _talking_. Listen, I’m happy to be one of your best friends, and one of Rachel’s. I’m happy to listen and help you both sort this shit out, that’s what I’m here for. But what you really need to be doing is talking to _Rachel_ about these fears, and how you’re feeling. You two need to fucking _communicate_. Because not communicating nearly destroyed your friendship, and it sure as shit will destroy your relationship.” She thinks, if she and Brittany hadn’t been communicating, their relationship might have ended messily, without any promises to reconnect. There could have been many more hurt feelings.

Quinn thinks for a moment. “That’s…actually pretty solid advice,” she admits.

Santana spreads her hands, “What can I say, if there’s one thing I know, it’s bitches.”

“Right,” Quinn rolls her eyes affectionately.

Santana smirks, then her expression changes, “Wait, you were all defensive earlier, _what_ have you been doing in _my_ bedroom?!”

Quinn chuckles, “Calm down. Nothing. Kissing. That’s it.”

“ _That’s_ it?!” Santana asks incredulously, “Damn, you move slow.”

“It’s been like literally two weeks, Santana.”

“Still.”

Santana shakes her head, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Rachel is planning to tell you and Kurt after I leave, so…you should pretend you don’t know.”

Santana raises an eyebrow, “The first thing you want me to do is lie to your girlfriend for you?”

Quinn looks away, “Fine. I’ll tell her. But you should still act surprised for Kurt’s sake. You know how he feels thinking he’s the last to know something.”

“Uh huh,” Santana responds, not entirely trusting that Quinn will tell Rachel. But, she supposes, it will be hard to teach Quinn to open up, when she’s spent her whole life closely policing who knows what about her.

 

_If I were a salad, I know I’d be splashing my dressing_

 

There have been times in her life when opening up to Rachel Berry was easy.

But maybe because she’s also simultaneously been keeping a giant secret from her for so long, it’s also hard right now. Now that her feelings have been in the open, she feels like a dam in her mind has opened, and more secrets are struggling to spill out. But she’s trying to control them, trying to assess which ones she should tell, and when.

Because all of a sudden, Rachel has more power over her than ever before. She has the power to break Quinn’s heart intentionally, and it’s the most terrifying power of all.

But Santana’s right. Honesty is important.

Still, it isn’t until a week later, the Saturday night before she is supposed to head back to Yale, that she finally gets up the courage to talk about some things.

They’ve had a good week. They’ve spent time in the city and in the apartment. Rachel took her to the Strand bookstore, a place in which Quinn lost about three hours of her life. They walked almost the entire length of Manhattan, visited the Natural History museum, explored Williamsburg, a place Quinn wanted to dislike but was oddly drawn to. And then in the evenings, they would make dinner, watch TV, and then make out for a long while before turning in, their bodies still humming with arousal.

Despite all this, they haven’t talked a whole lot about their feelings, except when they kiss and Rachel will murmur against her lips, “Sometimes I still can’t believe this is happening, you’re so amazing,” but Quinn isn’t entirely sure if this is commentary on her kissing skills or Rachel trying to communicate how she’s feeling.

So while Santana is at work, and she and Rachel are kissing on Rachel’s bed, Quinn stops to say, “I want to talk about some things.”

“Me, too,” Rachel smiles, “These weeks have been so incredible.”

“I agree,” Quinn grins, too. “I just…I want to tell you some things.”

Rachel sits up and regards her seriously, “Of course, Quinn. Tell me.”

Quinn takes a deep breath. “Well. For one thing, I need to tell you that I made out with Stephanie.”

Rachel’s eyebrows rise, “Your roommate?”

“Yes, a couple months ago. There was a period of several days that we were just…kissing. A lot.”

Rachel inhales deeply and seems to process this. “Okay. Okay, I guess I can understand how that would happen.” Her mouth is barely moving.

Quinn is terrified that she’s already ruined everything, but she knows she needs to tell. “It ended when Stephanie…masturbated in front of me. I wasn’t really aware of what she was doing until she was coming, but it was too much, too soon. I wasn’t ready. Things were tense between us for awhile, but they’ve calmed down. We’re friendly again. She maintains that she is straight, and she knows that I am gay, and I don’t think either of us want to repeat what occurred.”

“Well I should hope not,” Rachel responds haughtily, “Quinn, I want you to make sure she knows you have a girlfriend when you go back to Yale.”

Quinn shakes her head, “I was planning to, but Rachel, I am telling you this because I want you to trust me. I can’t control who I live with, and she’s part of my friend group, so I will be spending time with her. Just like you’ll inevitably be spending time with the classmate you fooled around with.”

Rachel seems to subside a little. “I understand. I just haven’t wanted to think about how once you leave tomorrow, we’re long distance. I know we won’t even be able to spend every weekend together…”

“Which is all the more reason we need to be able to trust each other.”

“I do trust you,” Rachel says simply. “I just hope you can trust me. I know that…me only recently realizing that I have romantic feelings for women probably isn’t very comforting for you, when my romances with men have been well-documented.”

Quinn nods awkwardly, “But I also get how this is scary for you, because it’s scary for us both, and I tell myself you wouldn’t be trying to do this with me if you weren’t serious about it.”

“Right.” Rachel breathes out, “We can keep working on building trust together.”

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees, “I want to be honest with how I’m feeling about all this, okay? I think it will help.”

“Sure,” Rachel turns her body so that she’s facing Quinn even more. But for Quinn, this is almost too much, so she rolls onto her back to look at the ceiling.

“I’ve…had feelings for you for a long time,” she confesses. She knows this isn’t exactly news, but still, from her periphery, she can see Rachel beaming and turning a little pink. “So in some ways, this is a dream come true for me. In other ways, it’s absolutely petrifying, because this is an aspect of my life that I dread my family finding out about.”

Rachel nods, still listening.

“And because…I’m scared that we’ll get hurt. I’m scared you’ll discover that you’re just…hot for me or something, that this isn’t a romantic thing for you.”

Rachel interrupts, “I don’t know how else to express to you—”

“I know,” Quinn interrupts right back, “I know, and every minute I spend with you convinces me more. It’s nothing you’re doing. It’s my own stupid insecurity, my own tendency to always wait for the other shoe to drop, that is causing this right now. It’s me. It’s not you at all.” This seems to placate Rachel, so Quinn continues with the other thing that’s been bothering her for, well, years. “And I’m also still dealing with how to process the fact that despite the fact that I’ve wanted this for such a long time, I know that I never would have chosen this.” She shakes her head, “If I’d had a choice, it would be men. But I don’t, and I’m finding my happiness with women, with _you_ , but it’s still so hard to just let myself _enjoy_ this happiness.”

Rachel is quiet for a long moment and then says softly, “Quinn, _no one_ would ever choose to be gay, or to fall for someone of the same sex. That’s why it’s so hard.”

“I know,” Quinn answers, “But I just need you to know that as much as I’m on cloud nine finally being able to kiss you, inside I’m still petrified and struggling.”

“So am I,” Rachel answers softly, “About how I can be out. About how it might make me seem to potential directors. Which is why…I don’t want to dwell on this stuff the last night you’re here with me. I just want to…” she leans over, tentatively, to connect their lips.

Quinn’s mind is firing off even more fears at that revelation, of Rachel’s fear of how to be out professionally. It’s both flattering, that Rachel is thinking so long-term about this, and terrifying, that she’s thinking so long-term and that Quinn realizes that she could hold Rachel back someday.

Truthfully, it’s easy enough to push all these fears away when Rachel moves to straddle Quinn, still kissing her. Quinn plays with her hair and runs her hands over Rachel’s back as Rachel presses their bodies together, kissing all over Quinn’s face and neck and lips.

And soon, Rachel is grabbing one of Quinn’s hands, and lifting her body just enough that she can place Quinn’s hand directly onto her breast, over her blouse.

Quinn’s breathing stops, absolutely stops. She hasn’t been able to bring herself to touch Rachel here yet, has been too terrified. Of what, she has no idea, but terrified nonetheless. But here’s Rachel, her eyes both excited and worried, her head lifted now so that she can watch Quinn’s face.

“Ohmygod,” Quinn breathes. Her heart is hammering, her entire body feels hot, there’s a tingling between her legs.

Rachel just watches her for a long time. “I want you to touch me,” she whispers.

“I…” Quinn can barely breathe, let alone speak.

“Unbutton my shirt, Quinn,” Rachel commands.

Quinn whimpers, but then her hands are moving, clumsily unbuttoning, until the blouse is just hanging there. Rachel slides it off her shoulders, and is there, straddling Quinn in her bra and skirt. Her eyes are expectant.

Quinn raises a tentative hand and touches Rachel’s breasts, over her bra. Rachel’s breath stutters, her eyelids flutter, and she looks at Quinn with very dark, almost feral eyes.

Her hand is moving, massaging the soft flesh. Rachel’s breasts are much smaller than Stephanie’s, but somehow _better_. They fit exactly into Quinn’s palm, and the more she touches them, the more she begins to note the feeling of Rachel’s nipples stiffening beneath her hands.

“You should remove my bra,” Rachel murmurs. As far as dirty talk goes, it really doesn’t qualify, but the effect it has on Quinn’s arousal is profound, and she reaches both hands back. She struggles with the clasp for several long moments, feeling herself blush harder with every moment that goes by that the bra clasp bests her, until finally, the bra is falling away from a pair of gorgeous, perky breasts with dark, erect nipples.

Quinn can’t stop staring at Rachel’s bare upper body. She doesn’t even want to touch the breasts at first, because then she wouldn’t be able to see them, and all she wants to do is look and feel herself get wetter.

When it starts making Rachel self-conscious, Quinn raises a hand to stroke a thumb across one of her nipples. Rachel gasps and arches her back. “Oh, Quinn,” she murmurs.

The words pound through Quinn’s skull and she just touches gently for several long moments until she finally whispers, “Do you want to touch mine?”

Rachel’s eyes widen and her mouth parts. She gives a few vigorous little nods and moves back off of Quinn a little so she can sit up some.

Unlike Rachel, Quinn had worn jeans today. She’d noticed the way Rachel’s eyes lingered over her hips and backside when she did, and had decided that on their final day together this break, she would give Rachel something to remember. She surmises Rachel had a similar idea and had worn a skirt today to give Quinn plenty of thoughts about her long legs.

But still, it’s fortunate, because it means she can actually be topless for Rachel without revealing too much; this would have been awkward if she’d been wearing a dress. And she doesn’t make Rachel start touching over the shirt, she’s too eager for that, she just sits up and takes off her shirt.

Rachel is simply staring, her mouth still parted. She wets her lips and closes them, swallows, and then reaches tentative hands over to touch Quinn’s breasts over her bra. Quinn’s breath hitches, and she watches Rachel’s enthralled expression as she cups and presses them gently.

Quinn’s body is humming, her brain is buzzing and all she wants is that bra out of the way. “Take it off,” she breathes.

“Yes,” Rachel murmurs, and moves her hands to remove the bra immediately. She actually does a little better than Quinn, and it’s off quickly, and Quinn drops it beside the bed and leans back on her elbows, giving Rachel full access.

There’s something in Rachel’s awed expression that reminds her of Sam, of all people, of the way Sam would react the times they made out pretty vigorously back when they were dating. His expression was different than Finn’s or Puck’s. Finn always looked half-baffled, as though nothing about touching her body or the reactions of his own was comprehensible to him in those moments. Puck had disguised his actual expressions behind smirks, or he looked like he was concentrating—which he probably was. But Sam, like Rachel, didn’t need bravado; he had just enough confidence to let his true expressions show, and they were often like the one Rachel wears now—completely entranced, completely gracious, as if she can’t believe that something this good could happen to her.

Rachel lowers her hands to Quinn’s bare breasts, and Quinn nearly hisses because of just how good it feels to be vulnerable in that moment. She’s really never let anyone do this, get on top of her and touch a naked part of her body with tenderness and intimacy. Sex with Puck really didn’t count, because there really wasn’t much tender or intimate about that, but it comes closest. Even with Stephanie, the intimacy came from Stephanie touching _herself_ , not Quinn.

Regardless, it’s the first time Quinn really feels comfortable with this kind of experience, and, in that moment, letting go of the tight control she keeps over her body and its interactions with others feels exhilarating.

It emboldens her, and she shifts to lift one hand to bring back to Rachel’s breasts. She’s gentle at first, and then she pinches a nipple slightly. Rachel moans, and stifles it quickly.

“Oh my God. Do that again,” Rachel breathlessly demands. So Quinn switches to the other nipple and does, and Rachel’s entire body squirms on top of her, then lowers so that it covers her, and Rachel is kissing her, tongue gently parting her mouth, her bare breasts pressed against Quinn’s own. Rachel shifts her body so that her hard nipples trace over Quinn’s, and Quinn is squirming and breathless beneath her.

Rachel lowers her mouth in a line of kisses from Quinn’s jaw and down her neck and collarbone. She trails her tongue lightly down the collarbone and sternum and then stops, her face between Quinn’s breasts, and glances up at her. Quinn feels like her entire body is on fire, and she nods once, and then Rachel moves her mouth over to slip a nipple between her lips.

Quinn arches up off the bed at this, because this is new, this is incredible, and it feels like her entire body is being engulfed in a tingling wave of pleasure. Not like an orgasm, but simply the most powerful wave of arousal she’s ever experienced. Her hand is fisted in Rachel’s hair before she’s really aware of it, her hips are rising. And she becomes aware of her clit throbbing, aching to be touched. “Rachel,” she moans, trying to stifle it. Just saying it makes her blush harder.

Rachel lifts her head and grins. “Wow.”

Quinn’s entire body feels hot and she can’t form any more words, she just releases a whimpery moan. Rachel leans down and kisses her face several times, “I can back off, if you need me to.”

Quinn finds her voice, “It’s really not that I want you to stop, but…yeah.”

Rachel sits back on her heels and Quinn sits up across from her, breathing hard. She can’t believe anything physical with another person can feel so good. It’s like her body is waking up, like nerves she never knew existed are forging new paths to the pleasure centers of her brain.

And she wants Rachel to feel the same, so she reaches out a hand to gently grasp Rachel’s breast. Rachel watches with eager eyes as Quinn slowly lowers her own head to flick her tongue lightly over the pert little nipple.

Rachel’s back arches and her head falls back, “Oh my God, Quinn,” she gasps, and Quinn just keeps moving her tongue over Rachel’s nipple. Her other hand circles around Rachel’s body, gently holding her in place, while Quinn moves her mouth over Rachel’s nipples, kissing and licking and once gently grazing her teeth over them (which makes Rachel keen). When she stops, Rachel looks flushed and sweaty and looks at her with glazed eyes, and then they’re kissing, messily and hungrily, until Rachel finally pulls herself away.

“Maybe we should…” she’s breathing heavily.

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees, “We should probably stop before this gets too intense.”

“Yeah. I’m going to go take a shower, and then we should probably get some sleep. You have to go home tomorrow,” she pouts.

“Yeah,” Quinn feels her mood falling already.

When it’s her turn to shower, she lets her hand fall between her legs. She’s _still_ so wet from everything that happened between them. She looks down, and sees what might be a little hickey on the upper swell of her left breast. She lets herself fall back against the wall of the shower as her hand moves between her legs. Images of Rachel’s face, so open and aroused, flicker in her mind, as well as the feeling of Rachel’s mouth on her breasts. For the first time, she dares to imagine what that mouth might feel like against her…but she stops herself, because those thoughts are still really petrifying. Instead, she thinks more about Rachel’s breasts, Rachel’s lips, and less about her hands and between her legs, and before too long, she’s arching against the shower wall, holding her breath to keep from moaning aloud.

Her knees are shaking so hard it’s difficult for her to wash up after she comes. It’s really only the second time she’s successfully had an orgasm, and this time…there is absolutely no guilt or shame to think about Rachel Berry as she comes.

She feels a lot calmer as she comes back to the bedroom, and abruptly wonders if Rachel had done the same thing in the shower, because she flashes Quinn a shy grin from the bed, an expression devoid of lingering uncontrollable passion. Quinn slips into bed next to her and they kiss, gently, for a long moment.

“I’m so sad you have to leave,” Rachel whispers, burrowing against her neck.

“Me, too. But we’ll be okay,” Quinn replies, kissing her forehead.

“I know,” Rachel responds, “And I just…I’m so glad you’re my girlfriend, Quinn. I’m…almost excited to tell our friends.”

Quinn hesitates, weighing her desire to be honest with Rachel with her desire to avoid disappointing her by defying their previous agreement. “About that. I actually told Santana. She was getting suspicious.”

“Oh,” Rachel’s brow furrows, and she shrugs, “That’s okay. I get it. She’s one of your closest friends, this wasn’t just my secret to keep from her.”

“Yeah,” Quinn whispers, “She’s agreed to pretend she doesn’t know, for Kurt’s sake.”

“Okay,” Rachel sounds sleepy now, and nuzzles Quinn’s neck.

Quinn holds her, and her heart feels like it might burst. As she falls asleep, she tries to remind herself that somehow, this is now a part of her life.

She is Rachel Berry’s girlfriend, and tonight, she got to touch her boobs. Under the shirt, under the bra.

 

_May my wrongs create no trouble in thy breast_

 

Quinn heads home the next day, in the late morning. Rachel accompanies her to Grand Central, and gives her a long, tight hug before she boards her train.

She tries not to feel devastated as she heads back to her apartment alone.

If she’s honest, Quinn being there when she was had been exactly what she needed those past two weeks. She didn’t particularly feel like her _Amahl_ callback had gone that well, and having Quinn there meant that she didn’t have to dwell on whether or not she’d totally bombed it. Now, she’s expecting to hear back any day, and she can’t help dwelling on it.

She also can’t help dwelling on what she’s going to say if she _does_ get the part, because the more she thinks about Quinn’s advice when she was first trying out, the more she thinks there might be some truth to it. She _doesn’t_ want the part itself so badly. It’s not a great fit for her. Maybe she does just want a starring role Freshman year…

As she rides the train home, she thinks about it. It’s not as though doing an opera is going to spoil her voice. If anything, it will just give her more practice. But it’s _hard_ for her. It doesn’t feel like her singing when she sings in that style. She wonders if it would dull her voice if she did it a lot, rather than hone it. Maybe she should just stick to what she knows.

Or would it be impressive, to be able to perform in both musicals and operas?

She just doesn’t know what would be the best move for her career, and a part of her wants to choose based on what would make her happy now rather than based on what would impress future directors. Would it help to pad her resume?

Without deciding, she goes home and works on some of the assignments she’s neglected all break, which helps distract her. Although it’s frustrating, too, because Passover begins the next night, and for the first time, she won’t be with family for the seder. She’s found a Jewish community seder to attend instead, at least for Monday night, and if it isn’t too depressing, maybe Tuesday, too, but she’s pretty sure she won’t do very much observing otherwise, other than avoiding chametz. It’s going to be a lonely Passover. She’ll be in school all week.

In the evening, when Santana is awake and Kurt is home from his restaurant job, she sits down in the living room with them and clears her throat. “I would like to have a discussion with you both.”

Kurt raises his eyebrows at her and shifts his attention away from the box of carryout he took home from work, while Santana reaches over to hit pause on the Wii.

“Do continue,” Kurt instructs.

She smoothes her skirt and sits on the couch next to Santana, aware that she already knows and interested in how she will play it. “Well, I simply have some news. I feel it’s only right to tell you that I am seeing someone.”

She pauses for dramatic effect, and watches the faces of her friends. Santana is merely raising her eyebrows, her expression largely neutral. Kurt’s eyes are wide. “Oh my god, who?!”

“For the past three weeks, I have been dating, unofficially and then officially, Quinn Fabray.”

Kurt’s mouth drops open, and he covers it with his hands. Santana looks at him, takes in his obvious shock, and rolls her eyes, “So basically, you’re telling us you had your girlfriend here for two weeks without us knowing?”

Rachel scowls. She wasn’t expecting Santana to play it this bitchy. “Well…yes, I suppose so.”

“Well, _that_ kind of sucks. What if I’d walked in on you?” Santana gripes.

“Well, you didn’t.”

“Yeah, but I _could_ have.”

“Santana, hush,” Kurt instructs, “I’m just…” he fans his face, “I _so_ wanted this to happen!” he squeals.

“You did?” Rachel asks in surprise..

“Once I realized she had feelings for you, a part of me _hoped_ you’d find your way to each other.”

Rachel raises her hands. “Wait. You knew?”

Kurt waves his, “Please, it was obvious once I found out she was gay.”

Rachel sits stunned for a few moments, while Santana just puts her head in her hands and shakes it.

“It was?” she asks.

“Oh, sweetie,” Kurt replies, “It’s _never_ obvious to the object of one’s affections. Don’t even worry about it.”

“It’s just…I don’t know. We’re both struggling with this and what it means and to hear that we’ve somehow been so transparent is…a little alarming.”

“You’re not,” Santana assures, “It’s just that we’ve seen the way Quinn acts around you for almost four years now. We were bound to put some pieces together.”

“You knew, too?” Rachel sounds crestfallen.

“Oh my god, calm down,” Santana scowls.

Kurt looks thoughtful, “So, I assume you’re dating because you realized you have feelings for her, too?”

“Yeah,” Rachel smiles, a little, “It was weird to realize, but…yes. I very much do.” She frowns again, “It’s just…I don’t know. I just know I really, really like her. I don’t know what to do with this fact, and who to tell, and how open to be.”

“Take it at your own pace,” Kurt advises, “We won’t tell anyone,” he adds.

“Of course not,” Santana agrees.

“Not even Brittany or Blaine?” Rachel presses, noting the way Kurt’s eyes gleam, as they always do when he knows something juicy.

Santana looks away as she says, “No way.”

“Absolutely not,” Kurt agrees at the same time, sounding solemn.

Rachel nods. It’s still something really scary. It was nice to be out together in the city, which was so big they were essentially anonymous, and it didn’t matter who saw them hold hands. Not that she still didn’t feel hyper-aware of her surroundings anytime they _did_ hold hands, especially when they were even remotely close to NYADA. Quinn felt the same way, she could tell. The way she looked around, Rachel could tell she felt exposed.

She’s still also troubled by Quinn’s struggle, and Quinn’s assertion that she would never have chosen this. Even though she knows Quinn didn’t mean any harm by it, it still felt like a knife in her heart, like some kind of judgment on the choice _Rachel_ made, to acknowledge her attraction to women. Even though she is sure her life would have been less rich and pleasurable if she’d chosen to ignore the part of her that liked girls, there was still the illusion of choice in her identity. There was still the idea that she could have chosen to only date men for the rest of her life, which makes Quinn’s false choice of men over women hurt even more.

But she knows she didn’t choose to fall for Quinn, and she knows Quinn is just struggling with the reality of her identity. A part of her wishes she could talk it over with Santana and Kurt, but…she can’t air Quinn’s struggles to them in good faith. She just locks that little painful piece away in her heart, and tries to forgive.

She’s gotten good at forgiving Quinn, over the years.

 

_I can be your boyfriend, so you can stay with your girlfriend_

 

She expected to feel more hurt about the breakup. Instead, Brittany mostly feels free, and relieved.

She misses Santana, absolutely. She wishes they were in the same place, because she would be in her arms in a heartbeat.

But right now, apart? She doesn’t miss the feeling that she has to act a certain way to make someone else happy when they’re too far away to stop her from being sad.

She didn’t exactly have someone in mind to mess around with now that she’s technically single. But the possibilities opening up are exciting.

It’s been confusing, because a part of her wants to keep texting Santana. She’s just gotten out of musical rehearsal for the evening and she’s heading for the mall to find a present for her sister’s birthday. She wants to text Santana to tell her this, ask her what she thinks she should buy, but…it doesn’t feel okay yet.

That’s actually the worst part. The feeling of waiting for Santana to text her first. She knows she hurt her, and she knows Santana needs time. But when Brittany temporarily broke up with her girlfriend, she wasn’t intending to break up with her best friend, too.

The Lima mall is a little bit sad. It had been sad for years, now, not really a place worth going unless you needed a place to perform a flash mob, she guesses. It wasn’t even that fun to go to when they all first got their driver’s licenses and wanted to enjoy their freedom.

But here she is, window shopping for a present for her sister. She should’ve asked Blaine or Merry or someone to join her.

“Brittany?” someone near her asks.

She turns and squints around for the owner of the voice. There’s a vaguely familiar black guy grinning at her. Brittany knows she’s really bad at remembering faces. “Do I know you?”

“It’s me, Matt! You know, Matt Rutherford?”

“Matt? Oh my god, hi! I totally forgot you existed.” Brittany reaches over to hug him, and he laughs and hugs her back. Now that he’s identified himself, she sees him. He really doesn’t look that different than he did three years ago, same broad grin, studded ear, closely-cropped hair.

“It’s good to see you,” he smiles again, “How are you?”

“I’m good!” Brittany answers, “Did you move back to Lima?”

He shakes his head, “Nah, I’m on my Spring Break. I’m at WVU these days. I’m spending Spring Break here helping out my grandma.” He holds up a bag from J.C. Penney as if in explanation. “It was the best I could do to earn some money for just two weeks. What about you, are you on break from college, too?”

“No,” Brittany answers, “I’m just finishing up high school.” His brow furrows, but he doesn’t seem to dwell on this. “How long are you here?”

“I actually just got into town two days ago. I’m here for another week and a half.”

“Oh man. We should totally hang out.”

“Definitely!” he agrees. “I wish I had kept more in touch with you guys. I had a great time in the Glee club. I think I’m still friended to most of you on Facebook, but I’m never on there. Mike and I used to text, but...” he shrugs, “We both got busy, I guess.”

“Yeah, it happens” Brittany agrees, thinking about how she and Quinn don’t talk so much anymore. Their friendship was always a little strange. They were protective of each other, but at the same time, they didn’t often confide in each other. They were always better at doing things together, and now they can’t. “Want to grab some dinner?”

“What, right now?” he hooks his thumb at the food court and frowns, “Wish I could, but I’ve got to get these things back to my grandma. But we could meet up in an hour or so?”

“Let’s!” Brittany agrees, “Breadstix?”

“Absolutely. Let me give you my number.” They exchange numbers.

An hour and a half later, Brittany has a present for her sister, and has met up with Matt at Breadstix. They catch up on some basics. Matt is undeclared at WVU, although he’s considering mathematics or dance. The campus is crazy and he has done his fair share of partying, although he has been really careful not to get too caught up in it. He admits that’s pretty easy to do in a little college town where there’s nothing to do except drink and riot whether the football team wins or loses. Brittany fills him in briefly on repeating Senior year, on their Nationals win last year (Matt’s second high school didn’t have a Glee club, so he hadn’t been keeping track of the show choir scene), and told him about Mr. Schue marrying Ms. Pillsbury.

“I remember you being a lot quieter,” Brittany frowns at one point.

Matt chuckles a little, “I was so shy back then. I’m not sure why, except that McKinley was kind of a terrifying place. Like, I was constantly afraid of saying the wrong thing and getting targeted for a slushie or something. My next school wasn’t perfect or anything, but it was less intimidating. I broke out of my shell a little bit.”

“That’s cool. You look good without a shell. Not like snails.”

Matt laughs again, but then leans forward conspiratorially. “So, listen, I kinda looked you up on Facebook before I came here, and I wasn’t sure, but…are you dating Santana?”

“No,” Brittany tells him, “We were dating, but we actually just broke up recently. The long-distance thing wasn’t working for us.”

He sits back. “Wow.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. It’s just funny, I guess, that we’ve both dated the same girl. Sort of. It’s not like Santana and I were ever really serious or exclusive. We were just having fun.”

“Even funnier now that we all know she’s gay.”

Matt laughs, “It explains a lot about what dating her was like, really.”

Brittany reflects on that, and thinks back to when they were in early high school and had both started dating and having sex. She abruptly remembers, after Santana’d had sex with Matt for the first time and Brittany’d had sex with Mike, that Santana had asked her if it wasn’t kind of boring. Brittany said she didn’t think so. Santana had shrugged and started working on wrapping Puck around her little finger while still sleeping with Matt.

At the time, Brittany had assumed that maybe Matt just wasn’t that great in bed, but when she thinks about Santana and Puck, especially knowing now what she knows about Santana, things start to make some sense.

For one thing, Puck was on of the only guys in school who was willing to go down on girls. It wasn’t something he really advertised or offered to do, but once Santana figured out that he was pretty good at it because the cougar women he slept with sometimes demanded it, she would get it from him fairly often. The only downside to that was reciprocation, and she remembered Santana talking about how she didn’t really like to give head. It was another thing Brittany thought was strange. She enjoyed blowjobs.

Still, she’s curious. “What was sex with her like back then?”

Matt looks embarrassed, “Um. Well, I want to clarify that I definitely have more skills now…”

“Yeah, we all gained sex levels or something,” Brittany waves a hand, “Go on.”

“Well, it was…I don’t know. Basic, I guess.” He cringes, “I think back now, and man, we weren’t even using condoms. It was just a lot of fucking. But we weren’t together long. In only a couple months she was pretty much just screwing Puck.”

It’s funny the things that Brittany remembers, hearing this. How obvious everything is. Santana chose Puck because he did oral, and so could reliably get her off (Santana enjoyed penetrative sex, too, Brittany knew, but it was easier to close her eyes and pretend it was a woman going down on her). She also chose him because it wasn’t often that he came just from fucking. He usually pulled out, because he often needed to finish himself off with his hand. Brittany remembers this was why she stopped sleeping with him. She didn’t like that too much. Santana, however, had. Brittany remembered the way her lip had curled when she’d explained it was easier to clean up. Essentially, as far as high school males went, Puck was a good beard.

But what Santana and Brittany liked in men was different. Because what Santana liked in men was the ability to close her eyes and feel basic sensation and pretend they weren’t men. She liked the security of the closet. Brittany liked the sex. She liked the feeling of strong shoulders. She liked the feeling she got when they were bigger than her. She liked when they were strong enough to lift her. And she liked penises. They were funny, but also really fun. That was a basic difference. Santana only liked what penises could do for her. Brittany liked that, but also what she could do to them.

She likes a lot of different things about women, too. But right now, she misses men. And if Matt wasn’t someone Santana had enjoyed sleeping with much…it occurs to Brittany, then, that he might be someone she’d enjoy sex with a lot.

“So, how did you get so many more skills? Do you have a girlfriend?”

Matt smiles a bit ruefully. “Not right now, no. I was seeing a girl through most of high school and into college, but we ended things over winter break. The distance.” He makes a face. Brittany understands that face.

“Yeah. The distance.”

Matt is looking at her with curiosity. “I’m not looking for anything serious right now, anyway. I’ve had some fun at school. Hooked up a few times. But I have to focus on school.”

Brittany smiles, “Oh, me neither. I’m going to fix things with Santana in a few months. I just want freedom. And I’ve missed guys.”

“Ah. So, you’re bi?” He sounds unsurprised.

“Yep.”

“Gotcha.”

It’s not a huge surprise that less than an hour later, they’re in Brittany’s room, on her bed, and clothes are steadily disappearing.

“I’ve got a condom,” Matt gasps into her mouth.

“I’m on the pill, if…” she trails off.

Abruptly, she remembers over the summer, one time when Santana watched her taking a pill. The way her expression had darkened. It had upset Brittany at the time, because Santana was still on the pill to regulate her menstruation, and yet, when that they were preparing to part, she was suddenly grumpy about Brittany doing the same thing.

She tries to forget it. She doesn’t want to feel bitter about Santana, doesn’t want to think about how upset she’d be if she knew what was happening right now.

Matt looks uncertain, “I’d…rather not. I mean, people don’t always know for sure they’re clean. I just…fucked around without them way too much at McKinley, I’ve learned.”

“Kay,” though she realizes she misses the feeling of sex without condoms, back when she was younger and, in spite of her parents’ explaining the risks of sex to her, felt invincible.

It was so scary, then, when Quinn got pregnant. Brittany hadn’t honestly thought it could happen to someone she knows. She cringes a little, when she thinks about how she still didn’t really use condoms, with anyone. She’s been lucky.

She removes his boxers, and his erection springs free. The size excites her. She’s not what Blaine would call a size queen (if girls could even be that, she wasn’t clear on that part), but…a little bit above average, she does like that. Matt fits that definition.

Brittany gently puts her mouth on him, and takes him inside it. She’s missed this. But before too long he’s gently touching her face so that she lifts her head away and he’s rolling the condom down his length.

She doesn’t spend long down there after that; she’s too excited, and the condom tastes weird. She’s soon moving to straddle him, brushing off his invitation to sit on his face because she’s not sure she can wait. And, balancing with one hand on his strong shoulder, the other hand moves to guide him inside.

She’s always liked being on top, and it was rare in high school to find a guy who would let her. Matt is more than eager. She wonders if he was this eager to please women when Santana was sleeping with him, or if he gained that over time. She can just _hear_ Santana scoffing at him for having sex like a woman, something she wouldn’t want to let herself think of at that point in time…

She holds her breath as she lowers herself, until it’s forced out in a sort of groan. It’s been…it feels like it’s been forever.

She begins to move slowly, and moves her hands over his chest and shoulders, feeling his muscles. He holds her hips, gently, letting her move them, letting her get comfortable.

But soon, she’s leaning forward, kissing him sloppily, and his hips are moving more than hers, and soon moving faster, and they’re breathing hard and sweating.

She meets his eager eyes then, so dark and almost familiar. They’re not Santana’s eyes, of course, but she realizes then why he felt like the right choice to fool around with. They’ve both been with Santana, they’ve both loved her in their own ways. They both lost their virginities to her, sort of, even if for Brittany, she’s not sure she and Santana really knew it was sex at that point in time.

A part of her feels like Santana could forgive Matt, more than anyone. And someday, months and months and _months_ from now, Brittany knows she and Santana will have to discuss all that they did during the break.

But maybe it’s just hard to have sex now, without thinking of how much she loves Santana.

Matt holds out until she comes, and then he, too, is coming, thrusting deep into her. Brittany missed this. She missed the way it felt for someone to come from fucking her (strap-ons didn’t do that for Santana). She even kind of missed the way that the orgasms were so short for men, and left them so adorably sleepy, how their entire bodies seemed to deflate afterwards.

She missed strong arms spooning her casually. The smell of masculine cologne and deodorant and sweat. Stubbly kisses.

Really, everything except loving them. Even now, dozing with Matt in her bed, she can’t imagine falling into deeper love than with Santana.

But she totally wants to have good sex with him while he’s in town. Maybe after that, she’ll have scratched this itch, and can go to Santana in several months happy to be together and monogamous once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from The Weeknd, “What You Need,” Anoushka Shankar and Norah Jones, “Easy,” Blonde Redhead, “The Dress,” “If I Were A Bell” from Guys and Dolls, “Dido’s Lament: When I Am Laid in Earth” from Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas, and Jens Lekman, “A Postcard to Nina.”
> 
> Still fighting some writer’s block on this piece, but I will not be leaving it discontinued. I just don’t know when I might be able to get the words down to update again.
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, Stephanie took things a bit further than Quinn was prepared for, things were weird, but improving  
> Rob: Quinn's Yale friend, Stephanie's advisor at the radio station, gay ally  
> Lucas: Gay classmate of Quinn's, irritates Quinn because he sucks up, but she is getting used to him  
> Lulu: Quinn's Yale friend, takes the Feminism seminar with her  
> Jeremy (referred to not by name): Male lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hook up at Gretchen's party  
> Angela: Santana's gay coworker that works during the day, knows Helen, is interested in FWB with Santana


	38. God is a place you will wait for the rest of your life

_God is a place you will wait for the rest of your life_

 

The following week, her focus is kind of broken. She keeps thinking it’s because she’s shell-shocked, going back to school, no longer spending her days making Rachel smile and her nights curled up with her in bed. She doesn’t want to admit that she spent the train ride back to New Haven trying not to cry, because it was _stupid_ , she kept telling herself, to cry over leaving Rachel. Foolish.

Her mother probably would attribute her unfocused state it to spring fever, and yeah, the weather is getting nicer. She’s certainly not the only student feeling restless after Spring Break. Many eyes are wandering out the windows in class, and students excitedly start ditching their winter coats at the first sign of warmth.

But it’s not that, not really. It’s partly that she can’t stop thinking about Rachel, topless and straddling her, the sounds she made when Quinn slipped her nipple into her mouth, the way Quinn’s heart had pounded and her knees had almost buckled when she came in the shower in Rachel’s apartment.

She’s also feeling a little conflicted. She’d just spent almost two weeks with Rachel, and hadn’t gone home to visit her mother at all. Her mother is offering to fly her home for Easter weekend, but she’s pretty sure she’ll be declining her offer. She has schoolwork she needs to work on.

That guilt gets to the point that one night at dinner with her friends, she gripes, “I wish Spring Break had been a week later. It’s not fair that we have school over Easter weekend.”

Lucas chuckles a little, then squints, “Oh. Wait. Sorry.”

“What?” Quinn asks.

“I guess I thought you were joking. Pretending to be pissed about something that just inconveniences the majority religion?” He can’t quite suppress an eye roll, and Stephanie snorts.

“No,” Quinn says carefully, “If I didn’t have so much to do this weekend, I’d go home and see my mother.”

“It’s a shame you couldn’t go see her over break,” Stephanie smirks. Quinn’s been slowly trying to figure out how to tell her friends that she’s dating Rachel, but so far just Stephanie and Sean know, and Stephanie seems to enjoy watching her squirm in moments like this.

But Quinn doesn’t respond, so Lucas nods, “Ah, yeah. It is nice when school gives us religious holidays so we can take some time to enjoy family.”

Quinn feels embarrassed, and Lulu notices, “I think Easter itself might actually be pretty important to Quinn,” she says mildly.

“No way,” Lucas’s eyes widen, “Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a dick, I just…forget sometimes that smart people can be religious.”

“I’m not sure how you wanted me to take that, but I’m not flattered,” Quinn raises an eyebrow.

Lucas mutters something she can’t quite hear, and Stephanie asks, “Wait, you’re religious?”

“Well, yeah,” Quinn affirms awkwardly. She’d been hiding evidence of her beliefs since she came to school because she didn’t want people to think she was homophobic, not because she thought people would think she was ridiculous.

“Woah, I’m sorry,” Stephanie looks abashed, “I’ve never meant to say anything to offend you.”

“You…haven’t, I don’t think. Why are you all acting like I just told you I’m an alien or something?”

“I just didn’t really think you would be,” Lucas repeats, this time without implying that her beliefs are stupid. “I…kinda thought most people our age were outgrowing religion, honestly.”

“I know I did,” Stephanie pipes up, “I’m a lapsed Catholic,” she clarifies.

Rob smiles a little, “That’s like me. I’m so secular a Jew I’m pretty much agnostic. But like Catholic, the Jewish label stays with you all your life.”

“I can understand outgrowing church, but not outgrowing God,” Sean cuts in.

“You’re religious, too?” Lucas sounds surprised, “But you’re a science guy!”

“I don’t see the conflict,” Sean answers steadily, “And no, I wouldn’t call myself religious. But I do believe in God, as in some sort of benevolent creator. That’s about it.”

Quinn glances curiously at Lulu, since she sort of defended her earlier. Lulu smiles apologetically, “I’m an atheist, too. I was never raised in a church. My parents both dabbled in Buddhism, but never seriously, and never made sure my brothers and I were believers.”

Quinn twists her mouth, “I mean. It’s not like I’m going to church every Sunday, or even praying every day. But I do have beliefs. I don’t know. I know I’m less religious than I used to be, but…” she trails off. In her mind, she can hear her father ranting about the poison a liberal arts education puts into the minds of young people. How destructive it is, to learn about things God never intended people to know. She feels a little sick to her stomach. Why on earth was she entertaining the thought of reconnecting with him?

But a worse pang. What if he was, in a way, right? She didn’t feel as close to God as she used to…because honestly, she hadn’t even really been thinking about God since she started college. There was one time, her first month of school, that she considered joining a Christian organization, but the briefest research and a secretive scoping out of the meeting showed her that they were the kinds of conservative Christians she no longer felt comfortable around. They weren’t Sam or Mercedes or, heck, even Joe.

Which reminded her, again, that she’d been neglecting her friendship with these people. Though she missed Mercedes the most. Mercedes, who had been the strongest example of Christian love and charity at a time when Quinn, bitter and pregnant and hurt and scared, only saw Christian fury, vengeance, an angel with a flaming sword…

It bothered her, now that she knew, that almost all her school friends weren’t religious. Not in the way it may have when she was younger, where she might pray that they would know God and accept Jesus. It bothered her because it made her feel exposed. Different. Ignorant, somehow. Something she was always so sure about was cast into doubt. She’d known of people who weren’t believers, sure, but in the abstract, as ignorant, lost people. But these were people she liked, some who she respected. People who had clearly given some thought to their beliefs, and dismissed hers as insufficient.

The conversation ends awkwardly, as Rob gamely pushes them onto a new topic, but Quinn isn’t really paying attention.

On Saturday, the day before Easter, she calls Mercedes.

“Hey, girl!” Mercedes answers excitedly, “Are you in Lima for Easter?”

“No,” Quinn answers regretfully, “Too much school work.”

“That’s too bad,” Mercedes laments, “I would’ve loved to try to figure out a time we could meet to catch up.”

“Me, too,” Quinn responds, “How’s your family? How’s Sam?”

She lets Mercedes catch her up a little bit on her life. Her parents are good. Her brother is busy. Sam is so good and so sweet and neither of them can wait until he graduates from high school.

But Mercedes notices Quinn seems distracted, “Something’s eating you, I can tell.” She’s direct about it, of course, “What’s wrong, and can I help?”

“Yeah. Well, maybe. Mercedes, are you still religious?”

“What kind of question is that?” Mercedes laughs. “I’m a Christian,” she affirms.

“I guess I just…I don’t know. So many people I know aren’t. I’m feeling less and less like I fit in with other religious people. I don’t know.”

“How so?” Mercedes asks, concern in her voice.

Quinn hesitates, then manages to sound relatively normal when she says, “Part of it is my sexuality.”

“Oh?” Mercedes sounds intrigued now. “Tell me more.”

“Please don’t treat this as gossip,” Quinn pleads.

“I’m not,” Mercedes reassures, “I’m curious enough just for me.”

“Well. I’m gay. And I’m dating Rachel.”

“Rachel? _Rachel_ Rachel? Our Rachel?”

“Yeah,” Quinn is smiling now, “Our Miss Berry.”

“I had no idea she was gay!”

“She’s not. She’s bisexual. And leans toward men.”

“Well, now, _that_ makes a whole lot more sense,” Mercedes sounds calmer now, as if her world temporarily had tilted out of orbit with the news that she could have missed something like Rachel Berry being gay. “Well, I’m proud of you,” Mercedes says, “It can’t have been easy for you this year, coming out and everything.”

“It hasn’t been. I’m still working on it.”

“Well, if you’ve got yourself a girl, it sounds like you’ve been working on it pretty well. Seriously, I’m proud.”

“Are you…surprised?”

Mercedes chuckles, “Honestly, not really. I hadn’t really thought about it, but when you said it, it just fell right into place, like, yeah. There we go. Quinn is gay.”

Quinn smiles, then, and wishes she’d thought to tell Mercedes about this sooner. She’s been better than almost anyone at just making Quinn feel _normal_.

Mercedes continues, “Okay, I can get that, you feeling distant from the church because of that. I’ve never quite been able to convince Kurt that Christianity isn’t the enemy, it’s ignorance and bigotry.”

“I know that,” Quinn puts in, “But I mean, I think that’s only part of it. It seems like the more I focus on school, and now Rachel, the less I think about God. I’m not making time for prayer, or church.”

“And you know, that’s okay,” Mercedes says. “Honestly, if I had been unable to come to Lima for Easter, I might not go to church.”

“Really?” Quinn is surprised.

“I mean, by all means, find a church if that’s what you feel like you’re missing. My granddaddy always the first things you should do when you move somewhere new is find a church and a charity organization, and you’ll be involved in your community. But we’re both in school, and I’m working, and there are lots of opportunities to do good work and find a community in school. But, also, school means we focus on other things, too,” Mercedes continues, “I really haven’t even tried to find a church in LA that I like. I have too much else to do. That’s not a big deal. I may not be going to church, but I haven’t turned my back on God. And I’m sure you haven’t either.” Quinn digests that for a moment, then Mercedes continues, “Church is really just a community. A chance to build a community. That’s what I like about it. That, and the choir. It’s nice to pray together, it’s nice to hear the sermons, it’s nice to learn more, but…it’s not essential to loving God. I love my church in Lima because of the people, and it’s hard to imagine I might find another great community to join somewhere else. I’m sure I could if I looked, but…I’m not lacking in support or friendship right now. Quinn, at this point in my life, I’m a big proponent of spiritual but not religious. I’m still a very spiritual person. My relationship with God and with Jesus is very personal, and I feel His presence in my life. I know I’ve been blessed, and so I praise God. Even if these days I’m not doing it by singing in the church choir every week, but with just being me. With my joy, with my peace, with all the good I see every day, I’m praising Him. But religion? I don’t exactly trust that as much anymore. It’s inconsistent because it’s run by humans. My spirituality is only between God and me. That’s all it is. Trust God, and trust yourself. You don’t need a church full of other people to affirm what you know to be true in your heart.”

“…You’re right,” Quinn answers after a pause. “Spiritual but not religious. I guess I get it. There isn’t a wrong way to love God.”

“Unless you’re hurting yourself or somebody else, nope. Just be you, Quinn. Make time for God in your daily life, when it feels right. Don’t let anyone else tell you when and how to worship. And don’t let anybody tell you it’s wrong to have a little faith. It’s not for everybody, but it’s right for you.”

“It is. And it’s important. Thank you, Mercedes. It’s appropriate, that this is happening around Easter, huh? Guess I’ll be celebrating the return of Jesus in a few ways.”

“Anytime, girl. But no, go celebrate Easter by thanking God that spring is coming. That’s really what it’s all about, because Jesus never left you.”

Quinn laughs a little. Mercedes is right.

And somewhere in her heart, a weight is lifted, and a door is opened.

She can have God, her education, and Rachel. She _knew_ she could, she just wanted someone else to tell her she could. And yet again, Mercedes is here to help her pick up the pieces when her faith shattered around her.

It isn’t a rebirth so much as a renewal. And that feels like spring to her.

 

_And still I try to lure you into my own hurricane_

 

Luckily for him, his birthday is on a Sunday, which means it’s one of the only days he doesn’t necessarily have something to do.

For Mike, he would just be happy to spend the day in his apartment, enjoying solitude, but according to Kate and Sandra, that is absolutely not going to happen, and they’re prepared to use extreme force to get him to party.

“Come on, Mike! We’re on the home stretch of this semester, spring is basically here, and it’s your birthday! What better reasons to celebrate even _exist_?” Kate asks, in her almost belligerent way.

“We’re college students. We don’t need a reason to celebrate,” Mike points out reasonably, which makes Sandra laugh and Kate roll her eyes.

“Still, buddy,” Sandra concedes, “We _like_ partying with you. So let’s celebrate!”

Before Mike can really say much more, they’re dragging him to their apartment, where they already have snacks and drinks and _drinks_ and a few cheap decorations. Though one decoration is a big inflatable kind of shapeless dog.

“You’re year of the dog!” Sandra crows at him, and the two girls start laughing triumphantly, clearly pleased with their decorative choice.

Mike grins, too. He has always kind of identified with and liked dogs. Moreso than the goat that is his western zodiac symbol. Still, “You two are idiots,” he tells them affectionately.

“We know!” Kate chirps back.

“Good, as long as that’s clear,” Mike answers before hugging them both.

And before long, more guests are arriving, more friends from school. As long as they aren’t too obnoxious, it tends to be a non-issue if they party in their building, so it’s a little rowdy when Mike’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He’s been fielding happy birthday texts from high school friends for much of the afternoon, but this is a persistent buzzing. A call.

He’s immediately smiling a little, because, having already talked to his parents in the morning, he’s pretty sure that means this must be Tina.

He moves to go into Kate and Sandra’s bedroom, closing the door behind him. It’s a quieter space, so he can actually hear, and he answers the phone. “Hello?” he asks, even though he knows it’s her.

“Hi, Mike,” Tina says, “Happy birthday!”

“Thank you.” He feels warm and content, and not because he’s been drinking. He honestly hasn’t had that much to drink

“Are you have a good birthday?” Tina asks.

“Yeah. My friends threw me a party.”

“That explains why I think I hear bass beats through the phone.”

“Heh. Yeah,” he agrees, “That would be why.”

They’re in a pretty comfortable place right now. They hadn’t talked anymore about what happened between Tina and Brittany, and for the most part, Mike has forgotten about it. He doesn’t like to think about it, so he doesn’t. It’s honestly not that hard for him to ignore things that bother him. Tina had given him some time to get over himself, he’d texted her that he loved her about a week later, and since then, they’d fallen back into their routine of daily texts and semi-weekly phone calls.

“So, how _was_ Regionals?” Mike finally asks, because they haven’t had a chance to talk about it. The previous weekend was Easter, and Tina was busy because she’d agreed to join Sam at the Hudson-Hummel house for a big, long meal; Burt was home, and he and Carole were so sad that neither Finn nor Kurt could be there that they’d asked Sam to invite his friends. Blaine and Artie had showed up, and even Unique made an appearance later, after having to appear as Wade at her own family’s event. But because of that, Mike and Tina hadn’t had a chance to do anything but text that weekend. The weekend before had been Regionals, and Tina had indicated that she wanted to talk to Mike about it.

Tina sighs a little into the phone. “I guess I could use some advice,” she admits.

“Of course,” Mike encourages, now trying harder to block out the sounds of partying coming through the thin bedroom door, more for his attention span (which seems to want to wander at the moment) than anything else.

“Remember the end of last year? Last school year, I mean?” Tina asks.

“Which part?” Mike chuckles lightly, because a _lot_ happened then.

“The part where I had that weird…dream. And told myself that this year was going to be _my_ year. I was going to be a Senior, and I was going to rule the school.”

“I don’t remember you putting it quite in those terms,” Mike says thoughtfully.

“Maybe not, but I had every intention of being a leader.”

“Yeah,” Mike remembers that.

“Well, with the way Regionals went, I’m realizing I’m just following again this year, and I don’t know what to do,” she sounds distraught.

“How so?” Mike asks.

“Well, I had wanted to try to figure out what to do for Regionals, and I was struggling to find a time that the Leadership Board could meet, which was hard, because we were all involved in a lot of things. Most of our evenings were taken up by play and musical rehearsals, and then there was Sam’s work schedule, and my piano lessons, and Brittany’s dance classes and things to work around.” Mike nods, still listening, even though he knows she can’t see him, it feels right. “So I’m struggling to get this all together, and I know we’re all busy, and then one Saturday morning Sam calls us all and tells us he wants to meet, and we all get out of bed and meet at his place and he tells us he’s got something for Regionals, and starts playing this original song he and Puck wrote.”

“That’s great!” Mike enthuses.

“I guess,” Tina says darkly, “We knew we wanted to do original songs, we just hadn’t been able to get all together to work on any. Next thing I know, Blaine is telling us about an original song he had run by Karofsky and Merry and wanted to sing for us, and Brittany and Artie had started writing one together during one of their tutoring sessions. When it came down to it, everyone had started independently working on this except _me_!”

Mike frowns, “But that’s not your fault,” he tries.

“I _know_ it isn’t. It’s because I was trying to play by the rules this whole time, was trying to schedule this impossible meeting to try to get everyone together to make Regionals happen. I would be fine if these people had all worked on songs together—if we’d had a meeting and agreed to divvy up the songs, and if I had helped, too.”

“So…you’re angry that you didn’t help?”

“I’m disappointed,” she sighs, “In me, and in them, for not including me. I was humiliated. I guess I follow rules too much to be a true leader. Real leaders always seem to be pushing back against them.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Mike thinks about it, and he knows there are great leaders that followed rules. Maybe just a different set of rules…it’s hard to think right now. He wants to give her an example.

“Maybe,” she concedes, sounding bitter. “I just…I don’t know how to not just fall by the wayside and watch things go on around me.”

“I think you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. You’re starring in the musical, and have a role in the play. You helped prepare for Sectionals. Who cares if the rest of the Leadership Board took the reins on this one? You’ll have another chance with Nationals.”

“I guess,” she says again, but she sounds a little happier now. “And it did turn out well. Our original songs were good. And Puck actually showed up to watch us perform the song he helped write, so that was nice. And we won.”

“So you get a chance with Nationals,” Mike reassures. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. It worked because you guys are a team. Just keep asking for what you want. That’s what’s important: what you want.”

“Okay,” Tina reluctantly answers. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

“I’d better let you get back to your party. Happy birthday, okay? I wish your present had arrived on time, but it should be there tomorrow.”

“Thank you for calling. I love you.”

“Love you, too. Have fun tonight!”

But he leaves the bedroom, feeling the frown on his features. He feels _bad_ for Tina, and like he wasn’t really all that much help, but…it also didn’t seem to be as big a deal to him as it was to her. She had gotten into several schools she’d applied to, so it didn’t really matter how well she led people in high school, did it? And maybe she was better at following. People who could follow good directions well were also important. It didn’t make her an automaton.

Kate comes over and slings an arm around his shoulders, “You’re looking down.”

Mike shakes his head, effectively scattering his thoughts, “I’m really not.” Still, Kate jerks her chin at Sandra, over by the kitchen island, who begins to pour Mike another drink.

“Then why the long face?” she asks, grabbing his chin and pulling it downward.

He bats her hand away with a little amused snort, “Nothing. Just a semi-serious conversation with Tina.” He accepts the drink Sandra hands him.

Kate drops her arm and looks daggers at him, “On your _birthday_? Man, that Tina is such a _drag_.”

“She really isn’t,” Mike protests, but sees Sandra frowning as well. He sighs heavily, “She’s not. She’s great. She’s just stressed because graduation is only a few months away.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Kate scoffs, but Mike is already embarrassed, for his sake and for Tina’s.

He reminds himself that just because their conversations have been more serious lately, just because their relationship hasn’t been entirely sunshine and roses, that it doesn’t mean anything is wrong. He still loves her. She still loves him. It’s just hard to be living in different worlds right now.

“Enough about her,” Sandra says bracingly, “You up for some Mario Kart?”

“Of course!” Mike grins, and for the rest of the night, his two friends successfully keep the frown lines off his forehead.

It’s a good birthday, after all.

 

_My responsibility has found a place_

 

It’s been a long time coming, and it’s time for Unique to finally begin making daily appearances at McKinley.

At least, that’s how she phrases it. Blaine thinks of it as coming out, because that’s a concept he’s familiar with. Still, it hasn’t been easy.

Unique had had a great time at the gay bar, dancing with the straight boy who was there with his friends. However, she’d declined giving the boy her number, and once he learned she was underage, he had rescinded his interest. She was “still hot,” he said, but he wasn’t into jailbait. Though she had admitted to Blaine that if he had been closer to her age, she’s not sure what she would have done. She has no idea how to field romantic interest, because she has never dated presenting as a woman or as a man.

Soon after that, her mother finally convinced her father that she should be seeing a therapist to help her prepare to transition. So she was in therapy, which had boosted her confidence.

One snag had been the musical. On the first day, everyone was surprised to go through their script to find that Nicely-Nicely had been changed so that all his pronouns were now feminine ones. Blaine had noticed Wade fuming throughout the rehearsal, and as soon as she could, she pulled Artie aside. Blaine had followed.

“Why are you changing the script for me?” she had asked bluntly.

Artie looked shocked and awkward, “I…thought you might appreciate it?”

“Maybe he thought you’d be more comfortable?” Blaine suggested helpfully.

“No. Listen. Just no. I would _love_ to play a female role someday. I have no problem with gender neutral casting, or gender bending characters in general in classic plays and musicals. But this? You just did this to make me happy with my part. And I already told you, I _am_ happy. Reasonably. I’ve been playing male all my life, I can play a flamboyant male tenor, no problem. I don’t think I can play an inexplicably female gangster interrupting a boys club comfortably, especially not when the _entire musical_ is about that tension between the genders. If you’re going to have female gangsters, fine. Just don’t single me out by making me the only one.”

“Oh. Well. I can…”

“You’ve already cast the play,” Wade insisted, arms folded, “Don’t change your gangsters. Just don’t single me out because my gender is different. Someday I’ll show the world that a transwoman can be a star. But I’ve also accepted that I’m not there yet. I don’t have the body or the voice or the real experience of being a woman out in the world yet. So, _again_ , Artie. I’ll play a guy in your musical.” She smiles, just a little. “I appreciate the gesture, I really do, but I don’t need it. I’ll steal the show even playing the wrong gender, just like I do daily by being my fabulous self.”

It was hard to argue with that, and Blaine felt embarrassed for Artie, and uncertain about himself, because he’s sure he would’ve had the same impulse as Artie to fix the script for Wade. He wonders if that says something bad about him.

Over Easter had been hard for Wade, but it had also strengthened her resolve. Her extended family, who hadn’t spoken to her in a few years, had agreed to allow her to come to the Easter celebration, but only if she came “as a man.” Her parents had pleaded with them, but they stood firm, and in the end, it was up to her. She had decided to go, dressed in masculine clothes. It had been miserable, but she had missed her family, especially her grandmother. In the end, her parents had taken her home early, she’d put on a beautiful Easter dress and gone over to Sam’s house to celebrate with her friends. Her parents had apologized when she got home, for even giving her the choice to put herself in that situation, and had promised that next time, they would refuse to attend if the extended family wouldn’t accept Unique for who she was.

That had done it. She had support from her parents, support from her friends, support from a therapist, and one morning, Blaine goes over to her house early to pick her up, and drives her to school, so she won’t have to take the bus.

It isn’t exactly a picnic. Blaine had gone to Figgins the day before and threatened involvement with the ACLU (something he’d heard from Rachel worked quite well) if the gender identities of trans students were not respected. He supposes there had been a campus-wide email or something, because Unique reports that none of her teachers seemed surprised when she came to class dressed as her beautiful feminine self, and gave them a note asking them to use female pronouns. Most just don’t call on her that day, maybe afraid of messing up, maybe even secretly repulsed by her, and those who did seem awkward, but it isn’t awful.

Blaine ensures that a member of the “gay secret society” as Brittany called it, is always with Unique when she walks between classes, because all of them are terrified by the possibility of violence. She gets a lot of pointed “Why are you wearing a dress?” questions from people, who never seem to know what to say when she simply responds with, “Because I’m a woman.” A few people call her a freak, but she ignores them. Blaine’s going to make sure she always has someone with her until summer vacation, and hopefully help her build a support system at school; Merry has offered to introduce Unique to her friends. Adam in Glee club says he’ll definitely tell his friends to step off. Brittany accompanies her to the girl’s room once, which is fine, though probably because some of the girls in there hurry out. And Merry, timid Merry, seems eager to fight to defend Unique, which is adorable because she herself doesn’t have the courage to be fully out yet (though, Blaine thinks, anyone with eyes could tell because of her fashion sense…).

All in all, it hasn’t been so bad, and for the first time in awhile, Blaine feels like he’s done something _good_ for someone.

Because going to the gay bar with Karofsky? He still doesn’t know how good that was.

When they had talked afterwards, Karofsky thanked Blaine for giving him the opportunity to meet his boyfriend in a safe space. Blaine had accepted the thanks grudgingly, then asked, “So…the meeting went well?”

“Yeah. We’re going to meet up again soon, for dinner. A more private date, you know?”

“Where?”

Karofsky eyed him. “Up near where he lives.”

“Dave, you should…be careful.”

“I _am_ being careful,” he’d huffed, “I’m not afraid of this guy, he’s my boyfriend!”

“I know, but he’s…” Blaine had trailed off.

“Will you stop judging him based on how old he is? He’s a good guy, and I like older men. Hell, I could be dating someone a _lot_ older, this age gap isn’t a big deal.”

“You’re in completely different stages of your life!” Blaine tries to reason.

“And we’re willing to work through that. I lost my football scholarship because I got cold feet. I don’t regret it, really. I want college to be more than just sports. But Henry is willing to help me pay for college.”

“Oh my god. Dave. You can’t be serious.”

“ _What_?”

“You can’t date a guy just because he’ll give you money for college! It’s basically prostitution!”

“It’s _not_. It’s how relationships work. People support each other. And yeah, maybe it’s a little soon. I’m thinking about telling him I’ll take out a loan for the first semester or two, just to make sure we’re as well-matched as we think we are before I ask him to support me. But if he wants to…what am I supposed to do? Say no to college?”

The whole conversation had just given Blaine a headache, and he’d tried not to do anything that would just flat-out piss off Karofsky, because he still wants to try to be a help to the guy. But he has to admit, this isn’t something he’s been through. He can help the guy with coming out and being out and what it means to be gay, but…dating older guys? Navigating the kind of relationship where finances and lots of money get tied up in it?

He just doesn’t know. They haven’t talked a whole lot about it since.

Still, they do talk. He knows that Karofsky knows he can come to him if there are any problems, if he starts being unsure about Henry. Of course, he reminded Karofsky that he has to be safe, when he and his boyfriend do start having sex (he honestly doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to know, how far they’ve gone). He wishes he could grab Henry by the neck and tell him that he’d better not screw up this young guy’s future. That he’d better not be leading him on just to get access to an inexperienced virgin to manipulate.

Being this kind of confidant, though, is what he really likes. Not the way Kurt likes it. Kurt likes it because he loves gossip. He loves knowing what’s going on in people’s lives because he feels like he has power over them. At least, that’s always been Blaine’s perspective about gossip. No, Blaine likes knowing about people’s lives because it helps him connect with them. It builds trust. And Blaine likes people to trust him. He likes _people_. Of course, he likes leading people. Being the center of attention. Those things are nice, too, but he isn’t seeking to have power over people with those roles. He wants to be a good example, to coax people to do better.

He supposes the big difference between him and Kurt is that he doesn’t need to have power over people to feel secure. He doesn’t really know what that says about either of them.

 

_And I’m ashamed of running away from nothing real_

 

She figures, after she almost got married in high school, there’s not much she can tell her fathers that scares her.

She almost told them during Passover. They’d phoned a few times that week, because they knew she was lonely without a family Seder to attend. And although Rachel knew the news that she had a girlfriend wasn’t going to “ruin” Passover in any capacity, she still had been reluctant to break the news. It didn’t feel like the right time.

There was a part of her, too, that felt guilty for not telling her fathers sooner. For not telling them before she had a girlfriend. At the time, she felt like she had valid reasons for not telling them—she thought she’d never have a girlfriend, so her sexual attraction to women bordered on inappropriate information that her parents didn’t need to know. But now, she’s worried the news will hurt them. She knows that if nothing else, they were always sure they were the people she could come to if she suspected she was queer. After a certain point, however, they had seemed pretty convinced she was straight, and stopped giving her the little talks about how she could talk to them about “certain things.”

The more she dwells on it, the scarier it gets.

And she keeps thinking, about how unsurprised Santana and Kurt were. Would she tell her fathers and find them surprised, or completely expecting it?

A part of her feels dumb for not expecting it herself. But it was scary. She’d had that thought that there might be…potential with Quinn, and had backed off.

 _Why_?

Had she seen the same things in Quinn that everyone else had seen and told herself she was wrong because it was easier than admitting she might like to do something about it? Was she _that_ terrified of her own queerness?

The more she prods, the more she thinks it’s probably true. And then she feels like a coward, like a terrible human, that she almost let such an opportunity slip by, that she almost allowed their entire friendship to shatter because it was easier to pine for Finn, away at boot camp, than to admit that what was right in front of her might be better.

But at the same time, she thinks she can forgive herself, because if she’s honest, women terrify her a little.

Not that men _weren’t_ scary. But she was more used to them. She lived with men all her life, she dated men. Finn was, for the most part, pretty easygoing. She feared him breaking her heart, but a part of her always knew he would. That’s why marrying him so young had been so appealing. It would be harder for him to break her heart so easily that way. It wouldn’t be something he could do with a single sentence in a school hallway.

Men were scary, but she felt like she knew how to handle them. Women were another matter entirely.

She really didn’t have many female friends growing up. She didn’t really have many _friends_ , period, but she had always felt the lack of female friends more poignantly. And when she reached high school, and her peers began to transform into women, they were scary. All the women around her were vicious and made her uneasy. Sue Sylvester, a firestorm in a red track suit. Brittany, deceptively placid on the outside, hiding apparent amorality. Santana, fury incarnate. Even Mercedes, who couldn’t be bothered to even consider Rachel her equal.

Shelby, who gave her a mother and then snatched her away, so quickly.

 _Quinn_. Who she longed for in ways she couldn’t quite fathom, and who kept shoving her away, after brief moments when she would reveal a sliver of vulnerability that intrigued Rachel all the more.

Of course, not all women were so intimidating. Ms. Pillsbury had been sweet, if a little off-putting. When Coach Bieste came to the school, she’d had a great mix of a big heart and a strong will, from what Rachel saw of her. She’d had relatively friendly female dance teachers and vocal instructors, but her need to impress them made her vulnerable to them.

Most women in her life made her feel vulnerable.

That’s why, she thinks, she’d been so afraid to love them. From her perspective, men might hurt her out of heat, anger. Women like Quinn, or Shelby, might do so while being completely cold.

Opening herself up to a woman could leave her more broken than a man. That was the real terror. That only a woman could truly break her heart.

But she _does_ have feelings for Quinn. Strong feelings, feeling that still terrify her. She can’t stop thinking about Quinn being afraid that someday Rachel will realize that she’s not romantically attracted to her, because the same thing terrifies her. The thought that she might wake up one day and decide that what she’s feeling is deep friendship, not romance…she doesn’t think either of them would ever recover if that happened. And she knows they’d never be friends again.

It’s all relatively moot, now, because she has opened herself up. Quinn has hurt her, unintentionally, while trying to work through her own complicated feelings. Rachel can forgive her. Quinn makes her happy, when she’s here. When she’s not, Rachel just aches for her.

She needs to tell her fathers about this new part of her life.

She calls them, one evening, a bit after Passover ends.

“Hey, baby-girl,” her daddy answers. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Is Dad there?”

“Sure is. You want to talk to him?”

“I want to talk to you both. Put me on speakerphone?”

He does, and she hears her dad greeting her. She lets them tell her about how they bought a new lamp over the weekend, lets Daddy tease her again about how they’re going to have to empty out her room to make space for all the antiques Dad keeps buying. They laugh, as always.

Until Rachel says, “I have something to share with you.”

“What is it?” Dad sounds eager, “A song?”

“Did you get that part in the opera?” Daddy asks, sounding just as excited.

Rachel frowns, because she hadn’t gotten the part, and she’d barely thought about it. It hadn’t been a crushing defeat; she had been _relieved_. She supposes that’s how she knows, now, that she should not have accepted the part had she won it. That Quinn was right, and she was interested for all the wrong reasons.

Quinn was right about a lot of things. Rachel hoped she was right about the fact that they should try to make _them_ work.

“No, I didn’t get the part, but that’s okay, because I’ve got a small part in a student musical. It goes on just before the semester ends.” She hadn’t been optimistic about this tryout either, and honestly, had barely given it any thought, focused as she was on the possibility of landing the lead in _Amahl and the Night Visitors_.

“Maybe we can make it up for this one,” Dad sounds hopeful.

“I would love it if you came!” Rachel gushes. They had all been disappointed that they could come to her other shows.

“Well, what’s the word, then?” Daddy asks.

“I wanted to let you both know about a rather important change that’s occurred in my life.” There’s a pause, and she’s sure they’re imagining the worst. She can almost see the glance they just exchanged.

“What’s that?”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“A…a _what_?”

“Girlfriend, Daddy. And not like a female friend. A romantic interest.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then her dad says, “Well. This is a surprise.”

“Is it?” she asks, frowning.

“We just never had any idea you were attracted to women!” her daddy explains. “We think it’s great, of course!” he adds hastily, “We just want you to be happy.”

“I am,” Rachel nods, “We are very happy together. Especially physically together. Oh god, by which I don’t mean sexually, I mean being in the same place, because we’re long-distance,” she rambles quickly.

She hears one of her fathers snort, “Very informative, thank you,” Dad says dryly.

“So what’s she like?” Daddy wants to know.

“She’s…Quinn Fabray.”

There’s a moment of silence again, and then a chuckle. “Quinn, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well…that’s less of a surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“That girl has set off my gaydar since the first time I laid eyes on her,” Dad says conspiratorially.

“I’m glad it’s her,” Daddy cuts in, “I feel like she’d be very good for you.”

“She is.”

“Good. Well, you’re happy, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

“Are you having any trouble…being yourself?”

It’s a weird question, but she understands what her dad means. “I am adjusting to seeing myself as bisexual. It’s not easy, but it feels right.”

“Good,” Daddy encourages, “Too many bisexuals aren’t out. Be out! Be proud! Be yourself, baby.”

“I’ll try,” Rachel answers, feeling a tightening in her stomach as she thinks about coming out at school, or on Broadway. She’s supposed to go with Jesse to a party to mingle and network with some of the people he knows soon, and she doesn’t know how she’s going to tell him about Quinn, much less how to be open about having a girlfriend in general.

“And be careful,” Dad says, “Whether with men, women, whoever, romance can be risky.”

There’s a lump in her throat. “I understand.”

“But have fun!” her daddy interjects, “But yeah, be careful. But most of all, have fun!”

She’s confused, “Okay. Thank you.”

They disconnect the call soon afterwards, and though she thinks their reaction was fine, it was certainly over the top. Would they react this way to a new boyfriend? Are they reacting this way because she’s dating a girl, or because she’s dating Quinn? They know, for instance, that she and Quinn used to fight. She doesn’t think they know to what extent they used to fight, but they know Quinn has hurt her before. Are they worrying about that?

She feels a little relieved that they know. But even more stressed out at their conflicting advice.

It really shouldn’t be such a big thing. Should it?

 

_All she needs is therapy_

 

She thinks maybe it’s finally time she tells her therapist that she’s gay.

It’s a topic they’ve managed to avoid because she has so many other issues. Beth. Her family. Her guilt. Her mild depression (at least an improvement over the postpartum depression she battled for what felt like half of high school). It’s taken her awhile to trust her therapist. As with anyone, she’s careful how vulnerable she makes herself to her. Which is why she still turns to friends to deal with a lot of issues that pop up for her. Also, because she hates to dwell on something for days until she can meet with her therapist. It’s often faster to just talk to a friend. She knows her therapist has told her she can always call, but…she won’t. It’s hard enough for her pride to just go to the therapist.

Walking into the counseling office is always the part that makes her feel most exposed. She finds herself ducking her head instinctively, hoping she won’t see anyone she knows and that no one will see her. She signs in automatically and takes a seat in the small waiting area, always avoiding eye contact. The people waiting always display various levels of anxiety or lethargy, and she usually grabs a magazine at random and flips through it.

One of the doors to a close-by office opens, and Quinn looks up without thinking as a girl walks toward the desk to check out.

Quinn recognizes her instantly.

It’s Stephanie, and she appears to have been crying.

Quinn tries to sit down a little further, to appear unobtrusive, but from the way Stephanie pauses as she turns away from the front desk, Quinn knows she’s been spotted.

She dreads going back to the room after her appointment.

She finds it a lot easier to tell her therapist about her sexuality and about Rachel, but that’s because she’s dwelling on Stephanie. She wants to talk about it, but it feels just kind of catty and rude, to say, “Well, I just found out my roommate is seeing someone here and I’m kind of obsessing about it.”

So they just talk about Rachel, and about Quinn’s coming out process. Her therapist tells her she’s doing great, asks her how she thinks her mother will react, and Quinn snaps back to attention. They spend most of the session talking about what her mom and hypothetically, if they ever speak again, her father, might say about her sexuality. It feels good to talk it out, even though Quinn is pretty sure she doesn’t want her mom to know until she’s graduated from Yale. She doesn’t want to risk finding herself homeless in the middle of college.

Would her mom let that happen to her again? It scares her to think about. She would like to think better of her mother, but some wounds heal slowly, and part of her may never forgive her mother for allowing her to be kicked out last time.

She should be better at forgiveness than she is. She supposes she gets her ability to hold a grudge from her father.

After her session, she lingers on campus, not quite wanting to head back to the room. The last of the late winter snow had finally melted just before April, to be replaced by some wind and occasional half-hearted drizzling. Quinn had put on a coat before leaving and now, walking around, she is sweating a little in it. It’s becoming jacket weather.

But she can only delay it for so long. Homework awaits her, and it’ll be time to meet up for dinner with friends soon. So she heads back to the dorm room before it really gets dark.

When she opens the door, Stephanie glances up, then sets aside the book she’s reading and watches Quinn remove her coat and shoes. Quinn sits on the bed facing her, heart pounding, and raises her face. They look at each other for a long moment.

“So, you saw me,” Stephanie says. It’s barely inflected, and certainly not a question.

“Whatever you’re doing there, it’s none of my business.” Quinn had practiced this line in her head, but it comes out more callous than she intended.

“Likewise,” Stephanie returns, raising an eyebrow.

The silence eats at them both, until Quinn sighs a little. “I’ve been seeing a therapist since high school for depression and family issues,” she says quickly, barely moving her lips.

Stephanie’s eyebrows rise. Quinn lets it sink in, sure as she does so that Stephanie will wonder what kind of problems a rich white girl could have, and probably conclude it’s all to do with her parents divorce, when it’s so much more than that. But Stephanie doesn’t need to know about Beth, not really. Quinn isn’t ashamed, it’s just very personal.

But Stephanie doesn’t say anything rude. She just nods a few times in acceptance.

It’s quiet for awhile, and then she says, “I only started going there recently.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything else,” Quinn offers her an out.

Stephanie shakes her head. “No. I should. I’ve meant to.” She meets her eye, “I found out recently that I’m bipolar.”

“Oh,” Quinn answers. She doesn’t know a lot, but all she can really think of at first is that maybe Stephanie will go crazy and murder her. Then she brushes that thought away. She doesn’t know much, but she knows that isn’t accurate.

“I’ve really only been symptomatic for the past half year or so,” she continues, “But I think you’ve seen a lot of it. I’ve targeted you when I’ve felt down. I’ve been cruel to you for no reason because I couldn’t figure out why I felt so awful and you seemed to have everything. And I targeted you when I was manic. It was hard to really tell, because I had been recovering from the wisdom teeth surgery, but I was a little manic that week that we…you know.” She shrugs, embarrassed. “Sometimes mania just seems to kinda disinhibit people. Sometimes it’s more obvious. Like that day I just wanted to dance.” That day suddenly makes a lot more sense to Quinn. “I started going not long after a time I snapped at you when you tried to help me with a project. I had been down a lot that week, and was starting to realize that it wasn’t rational that I felt like killing myself because I couldn’t concentrate on my assignments. They thought I just had depression, until I had a big manic episode. Then they knew.” She sighs.

Quinn can’t really think of anything to say, so she just lets the silence stretch. She feels almost silly for not wanting her roommate to know she was there because she was sometimes depressed and had a rough time in high school.

“Things are so crazy right now. Rob asked me out, and, although I like him, I had to turn him down, because I’m not in any kind of shape to date right now, and seeing the way I’ve treated you, because you’re closest to me…I can’t afford a relationship I can screw up so easily. Right now, they’re trying to find the best medication and dosage for me. So…I could still have episodes while we discover how the medications affect me. Crazy talkative dancing episodes, maybe. Or stretches of time where I am just miserable. And I’m sorry if I do.”

“It’s okay,” Quinn says automatically, “Of course it’s okay.”

“I’ll try not to be such a bitch,” she smiles wryly.

“You’re not,” Quinn counters, though…yeah, sometimes she is, a little. But Quinn sometimes is, too. That’s why they’re friends, she thinks. They get each other.

“Well, anyway. Just wanted to let you know what you’re getting in to. And also, because I’m about to try a new dosage, I figured you should know. If I start getting like… _really_ manic or depressive…you should call my therapist. I’ll give you her number.” She passes Quinn a little business card.

Quinn takes it, “Okay. I can do that.”

Stephanie smiles, “We’re not so different, really. We both have issues we want to take on by ourselves, don’t we? You’re embarrassed to be seeing a therapist, just like me.”

“Yeah. Even though I know it’s stupid to be, I am, a little.”

“Me, too. I look at you sometimes and think, she hasn’t had to deal with all the shit I have. But I also see something in you…the world has shit on you, too, huh?”

Quinn swallows. “You could say that.”

Stephanie nods, “Well, I won’t tell anybody.”

“Thanks. I won’t either.”

Stephanie shrugs, “Honestly, I don’t mind if you do. It’d be good to have everyone looking out for me while I try to get this pinned down. I really need to find an effective medication before finals.” She grimaces.

“Definitely,” Quinn widens her eyes.

There will probably always be a degree of awkwardness between them, Quinn thinks, but at least they have each other’s backs. She’s not eager to spill all her secrets to Stephanie, but she can entrust her with a few. That’s all she can ask of a good roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Neutral Milk Hotel, “Two-Headed Boy Part 2,” Blood Orange, “Bad Girls,” Belle & Sebastian, “Piazza, New York Catcher,” Kate Bush, “Hounds of Love,” and Lloyd Cole & The Commotions, “Rattlesnakes” (I prefer to the Tori Amos version, however).
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, Stephanie took things a bit further than Quinn was prepared for, things were weird, but improving  
> Rob: Quinn's Yale friend, Stephanie's advisor at the radio station, gay ally  
> Lucas: Gay classmate of Quinn's, irritates Quinn because he sucks up, but she is getting used to him  
> Lulu: Quinn's Yale friend, takes the Feminism seminar with her  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, Quinn's friend, one of her better Yale friends, wants to be an active gay ally  
> Sandra: One of Mike's closest friends at school  
> Kate: One of Mike's closest friend at school  
> Adam: Football player, sophomore, in Glee  
> Merry: Young lesbian in Glee, friends with Brittany, Blaine, Karofsky and Unique  
> Henry: Karofsky’s internet boyfriend, about ten year age gap, Blaine doesn’t trust him


	39. You make me invisible

_You make me invisible_

 

It isn’t until April arrives that Kurt even remembers that McKinley has a Spring Break.

And then, he can’t remember exactly when it is. He’s been so busy with his own stuff, this sort of thing slipped his mind, and he finds he’d never put it on his calendar on his phone.

He texts Blaine asking when Spring Break is, and then goes on Facebook to try to scope it out himself (McKinley’s website still listed Spring Break dates from last year).

He realizes it’s the second week in April because Artie had posted asking who was going to be around because he was thinking about having a few play rehearsals that week, since the play was going on at the end of April.

He also learns it is to be cut short; McKinley had a few snow days over the winter, and so the Monday and Tuesday of Spring Break were now school days. That shortened the break, for sure, but not so much that it wouldn’t be worth it for Blaine to come out and see him!

On Artie’s post, he sees responses that Tina will be around because her parents weren’t letting her go visit Mike, Brittany is going to go down to West Virginia for a day or two (for what reason, Kurt can’t even fathom) but would otherwise be around, Sam will be around but will be picking up some extra work hours, but that Blaine is planning to be gone the whole time.

He feels a flush of joy and pride. Blaine hadn’t forgotten! Though, now he has to make sure he has some time off that week so he can actually spend some time with his boyfriend. He’s done okay, working two jobs for the past couple months. He’s a little more comfortable financially, partly because he doesn’t have the time off to go spend his money, and partly because he is making a little more, averaging six work days a week. Getting a free meal during his restaurant work shifts helps, too.

He’s starting to examine his schedule, try to figure out who might be able to take a few of his shifts for him, when Blaine texts back.

 

**Blaine “Prince” Anderson: 16 th-  
20th…why do you ask?**

 

Kurt chuckles, and wonders if Blaine was trying to surprise him.

 

**Sir Kurt Hummel: Wondering when you  
were coming to see me, silly!**

 

He shakes his head. Blaine is such a puppy sometimes. Sweet and endearing but utterly ridiculous.

 

**Blaine “Prince” Anderson: Call me**

 

Kurt calls him right away. “Hey, gorgeous,” he greets cheerfully. It’s hard to not be cheerful when he has his boyfriend visiting in about a week.

“Hey,” Blaine says cautiously, “Did I…say I was visiting?”

Kurt frowns, and thinks, “Well, we talked about it over Christmas, I’m pretty sure. Plus, I just figured…” he trails off.

“But we haven’t talked about it since?” Blaine asks.

“Not until now, no, I guess not.”

Blaine sighs into the phone, “I really, really hate to say this, but…I don’t think I can make it up to see you.”

Even though the conversation has been leading to this point so clearly, Kurt still feels it like swallowing an ice cube and feeling it drop right into his stomach. “I…why not?”

“My dad is taking me down south with him. On a business trip.”

“Oh, but…come on, do you have to go?” Kurt asks, “You spend a lot of time with your dad, can’t you blow it off?”

“No, it’s kind of important,” Blaine says reluctantly, “I’m really sorry. I guess I thought it wasn’t going to be a big deal, because you were so busy, and we’d never really nailed down me coming to see you…”

“Fine,” Kurt answers, trying not to sound sulky. “It’s fine. I get it.”

“Do you?” Blaine sounds worried, “I know I’ve upset you. I’m really, really sorry. I’ll make it up to you,” he rambles, “Come to Prom with me. I’ll buy your airfare home.”

Kurt almost laughs. Prom? But then, it could be fun, and he really doesn’t want to miss the chance to escort his handsome boyfriend. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do Prom,” he agrees.

“You’d have come to Prom with me anyway,” Blaine teases.

“Probably. But now I don’t have to pay for it,” Kurt teases back.

They hang up not long after, having at least ended the conversation on a cheerful note. But inside, Kurt is fuming. Not at Blaine, really. At his father, at circumstance, and at his own heart, for feeling so betrayed.

He throws himself down on the couch next to Santana. “What do you do when you feel like your long distance lover doesn’t care anymore?”

Santana flinches, “Uh…break up, I guess.”

Kurt glares at her, “Not going to happen.”

“Well, I didn’t want it to happen either,” she grumbles, looking back at the screen.

Kurt sulks for awhile until her words finally catch up with him. “Wait…” he begins.

“Yeah. It happened. It’s temporary. Don’t want to talk about it,” she growls.

“She…dumped you? Oh my god.”

Santana glares, “Yeah. She did. But she is still coming to New York and we will get back together, so calm the fuck down. Next year is still going to be like we planned.”

Which just reminds Kurt, they should probably start looking for another apartment. A three bedroom suitable for five of them. Probably one and a half baths, since they probably won’t find two…preferably walkable to a train (he hates buses). Maybe they can manage a slightly less sketchy neighborhood…

Oddly enough, that cheers him up a little. He may not have Blaine coming up for his Spring Break, but he’ll be up here soon enough, to stay.

He reaches over to hug Santana. She tolerates it for a few seconds before squirming away. “You’re so gay,” she tells him.

“So are you, sweetie,” he smiles, and gets up to make her a cup of coffee and himself some tea. She clearly needs it.

 

_I’mma try to swim from something bigger than me_

 

Life goes on.

He wishes he’d never let the potheads of Lima come pick up product at his house. Sometimes they drop by when he’s not home and make his mother or sister suspicious. He’s worried, now, that some of them might be dangerous, that some of them might not be above breaking in to try to take his money and his goods. Why wasn’t he thinking more clearly about this? The last thing he wants is to put his family in danger. Hell, that’s kind of the whole reason he’s doing this, so he can maybe leave Lima someday without hurting his family financially.

Now, he even does like Malcolm does, and sometimes makes deals out behind the restaurant. Not when Malcolm is working, obviously, because most of these guys know Malcolm and would rather deal with him. But in the mornings, when he’s here by himself or with Billy, Puck will.

Billy has been watching him suspiciously since he started this, but they still work fairly well together, and he’d still rather have Billy in the kitchen beside him than Malcolm any day. He figures, Billy probably sees what’s going on, and just doesn’t want to get caught up in it. Puck wishes there was a way to tell him that he would make sure he was never framed for this shit, but he really can’t.

Of course, then he has no idea what to do the one evening he goes back into Georgie’s office to find Georgie, Billy, Malcolm, and Joey all getting high as fuck together. They offer him some, but he only takes one hit. It’s the slow hour, between shifts, but there are still some meal tickets he needs to complete, so he goes back out there, shaking his head.

Georgie always makes fun of his “girls” out front for all being borderline alcoholics (and Puck is pretty sure he’s right about at least one of them, who never seems to show up without a hangover). It seems even shittier, though, given his actions. Especially since Malcolm claims Georgie buys cocaine from him sometimes, too.

The fact that the whole _place_ is kind of fucked up doesn’t make Puck feel any better about what he’s doing, though.

And then, one afternoon, they’re having a slow hour. Malcolm has just arrived and he and Puck are cooking the few orders that have come back, and Billy is finishing up a few things to help prep for dinner. At some point, Billy waves a knife at Puck, “Hey, man. Someone at the window wants to say hi.”

Puck shoots him a puzzled look and moves away from the burger he’s squirted more water on and covered. Billy moves aside and Puck sticks his head into the window.

Becky is there, grinning at him, “Hi, Puckerman, I thought that was you back there!” she greets.

“Hey!” he grins widely. “How are you? You look great!”

She preens a little, twisting her hips to show her outfit—though, due to the window’s height, he really can’t see much. “You like it? I’m glad! And I’m good. In school, living away from my parents, working.” She points behind her, “I’m here with my housemates, so make it extra good, okay?”

“Of course!” Puck grins. Her housemates still have menus, and Malcolm has taken over on the grill, so he doesn’t walk away quite yet. “I’m glad to hear you’re good. Sorry we kinda lost touch.”

“It’s okay,” she shrugs, “I lost touch with most people, I guess. Coach was really my best friend at school, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Puck nods, thinking again about Finn. Wondering how he is, and worrying that he hasn’t heard anything in a few days. But he’s fine. He has to be.

“What are you up to?” Becky asks, “Ohio State?”

Puck snorts and shakes his head, “Nah. I’m not college material.” Her brow furrows, and he continues, “I’m just working. You know. Helping out my family.”

“Here and your pool cleaning? You must keep busy.”

Puck frowns, because he’d almost forgotten about his business. It’s still more than a month until Memorial Day, when people really started opening their pools, but he usually tried to start drumming up business now, setting up appointments to help people get their pools up and running in time for the holiday. He hasn’t done that at all.

“Really just here,” he says lamely.

Becky is frowning again, but one of her friends calls to her across the restaurant, and she looks back at Puck. “I’ve gotta go pick what to order. Talk to you later!”

He waves back, and feels a little numb as he goes back to see if Malcolm needs help finishing the order. He really doesn’t, but Malcolm shoves the plate with the burger on it at Puck anyway and says, “Lettuce and onion,” so Puck turns to the salad station to dress the burger for him, while Malcolm watches.

“What did that sped want?” Malcolm asks.

Puck’s face burns, “What did you say?”

“Special ed, duh,” Malcolm rolls his eyes, “What did the sped want?” he repeats, slower this time.

“Just to say hi. We were friends in high school.” Puck knows he’s exaggerating a little, but they did bond on Prom night. Besides which, he feels the need to protect her from Malcolm’s cruelty.

“You were friends with that? Man, I thought you were cool,” Malcolm breezes.

“Like I give a fuck what you think,” Puck spits, pushing the burger up onto the window so hard it almost falls off the other end. Billy looks between them uncertainly, but doesn’t intervene.

Malcolm doesn’t say anything for awhile, just smirks while he watches Puck try to cool off, but Puck is just getting madder.

Finally, Malcolm says, “Oh, go out and sit with your retard girlfriend, I can handle it back here.”

“Fuck you,” Puck snarls, but he leaves the kitchen, to get away from Malcolm. He doesn’t want to go out and sit with Becky while he’s still clearly fuming, so he steps outside instead, and, after trying deep breaths for several moments, lights a cigarette to calm down instead. He curses himself as he does so. He can’t understand why he ever picked up this habit.

But after a few minutes, he decides he’d better go back in and cook, because he’s afraid Malcolm will screw up the food on purpose. So he storms in, tells Malcolm to take a break, and grabs the ticket as the waitress passes it back. Malcolm just watches him with malevolent eyes for awhile, but eventually steps out back. Billy is finished with his side work and should clock out and go home, but stays there with Puck to help him fill the order, which is on the large side, as it’s for seven people.

“Shouldn’t let Malcolm get to you,” Billy mutters, “He gets off on this shit.”

“I know,” Puck growls.

“If she’s your friend, I’ll cover for you so you can go hang out after we cook.”

“She is, but don’t worry about it,” Puck says, “You’re here late, head on home.”

Billy shrugs, but doesn’t push it, and once they’ve served the food, he asks Puck if he’s sure he’s okay, and at Puck’s assurance, he leaves.

Malcolm comes back in, and Puck ignores him completely, which is hard, because there really isn’t anything to do. Puck goes over and starts washing some dishes, since Joey won’t be in until a little later. Malcolm just stands around and plays with his phone. Puck avoids standing near the window, but when he notices that Becky’s table is leaving, he steps over enough to wave.

Becky waves back, but then gestures for him to come out. Puck shrugs helplessly, and she simply gestures again so, without even looking at Malcolm, Puck steps out of the kitchen and into the dining room.

“Come outside,” Becky commands, grabbing his wrist. Puck lets her lead him out the front door and onto the sidewalk. A lady is helping Becky’s housemates up into a van parked out front, while Becky stands with her hands on her hips and looks at Puck.

“What?” Puck asks, immediately feeling guilty that he sounds defensive. Malcolm made him defensive, and he hates that he’s taking it out on Becky.

She just looks at him for a moment more, then says, “You have a big heart, but you’re an idiot.”

“What?” Puck repeats, bewildered this time.

“You’re a good guy. I know this, because you were nice to me.”

“I was nice to you because I like you,” Puck retorts, “I mean, it’s hard not to like somebody who can beat the pants off you in poker, literally.”

Becky chuckles, “I know, but you never rematched me.” Puck shrugs helplessly, not having a good answer for that, and Becky continues, “I can tell you’re not happy. Just looking at you, I can tell.”

Puck looks away. He doesn’t have a response.

So Becky hugs him. “You’re a good person. Don’t get trapped here. It makes people bitter. Like Coach.”

Puck hugs back awkwardly, trying to think of some kind of defense. But mostly he is just shocked that Becky cares enough to even tell him this. She was really never known for having a big heart, herself.

“If I can make things better, so can you,” Becky calls, getting into the van. “You’re probably almost as brave as me.”

Puck watches as the van drives away, then wanders back into the kitchen, where Malcolm has disappeared. Puck doesn’t really care where he’s gone. Becky thinks he’s sweet, and brave. It’s been awhile since anyone told him that.

It doesn’t magically destroy his melancholy, but it is a turning point. It feels good to stand up to someone. It feels good for someone to believe in him.

For the first time in awhile, Puck feels good.

 

_I won’t crucify the things you do_

 

Maybe it’s mostly guilt for not going back to Lima during Spring Break or Easter, but Quinn agrees to go home for her mother’s birthday two weeks after Easter.

And, okay, maybe there’s some guilt, too, because her Reading Period starts about two weeks after this, and she’s planning to spend it with Rachel. But considering they’ve been too busy to visit for the past several weeks, she thinks it’s entirely reasonable.

Still, she talks to some professors, lets them know she’ll be missing classes on Friday and Monday, agrees to write a short essay in lieu of a quiz (something that will at least give her an excuse to not hang out with her mother for the _entire_ weekend), and allows her mother to buy her plane tickets home. It’s not a convenient time, but then, it never really is, this late in the semester.

As she heads home, she reflects that some of her reticence is almost certainly related to her new relationship with Rachel. It’s something she’s not ready to share with her mother, and it’s something she doesn’t want to have to work to hide. It’s already awkward enough to leave her dorm room to find a student lounge or stairwell to sit in when she wants to have a private conversation with Rachel—and not even a risqué one, just personal. She doesn’t want to be sneaking around her house in Lima, trying to have a conversation her mother can’t eavesdrop on.

Because her mother might. Not out of suspicion or spite, just curiosity and concern. She’s become more of _that_ type of mother after Quinn’s accident.

Her mother picks her up at the airport, and they hug in greeting. Quinn only feels a little weird doing so, but she smiles and tells her mother she’s happy to see her. That part is true, at least. And when she comes home to find her mom has put fresh sheets on her bed and is making her dinner, it makes her smile. It’s nice to be taken care of.

Conversation over dinner is a little stilted, but they manage to keep it flowing so it isn’t too awkward. Judy is keeping busy with work, church and book club. She’s happy that her crocuses are blooming. Quinn is able to talk a little about the things she’s learning about history and English and theater, but doesn’t discuss the class that’s probably most interesting right now, her Feminism Seminar. She’s not sure that conversation would be very constructive, although her mother was always a little more open-minded than her father.

That night, she waits until she’s pretty sure her mother is asleep before she calls Rachel, and even then, she keeps the conversation short. She feels terrible, because she can’t even bring herself to say she misses Rachel over the phone, and instead responds with, “Me, too.” She’s just overly conscious of everything she says. She doesn’t want her mother to possibly overhear anything that could indicate she’s seeing somebody, because then there might be _questions_. She does not want questions, because she’s sure she’ll end up giving in and inventing a boyfriend. And she doesn’t want to describe someone too different from Rachel, but also isn’t able to describe a male Rachel. It would be too transparent. And weird, if such a male Rachel is equally as obsessed with musical theater. Then her mom could be _sure_ he was a beard. Was that the right term for lesbians? It should be purse, Quinn decides. Purse made sense.

The next day is her mom’s birthday, and Quinn actually enjoys herself. Her mom doesn’t want to do anything special, so Quinn works on her essay for school in the early afternoon, and then they watch some movies together. Then, Quinn insists that they go out to dinner—and though she tells her mom she could pick anywhere, her mom chooses Breadstix. Which is fine, Quinn can afford that, but she’d been prepared to afford more. Still, they enjoy their meal, and Quinn gives her mom a present at the table. It isn’t much, just something she picked up at the school store. But her mom acts very excited about the beach towel with the Yale emblem, and says she will enjoy using it by the pool this summer.

On Sunday, they go to church together. Which is alright. Quinn doesn’t really feel like she’d gone to this church long enough to have a strong sense of community, but her mother clearly has friends here, and gushes with pride about how her daughter is about to finish her first year at Yale. Quinn smiles and shakes hands with several people. And the service is okay. She keeps thinking her conversation with Mercedes, though, and realizes all the more that this group experience isn’t what she’s really craving religiously right now. It doesn’t make her feel very connected to God, but she appreciates that her mom is clearly getting a lot out of it. During the group prayers, she prays to herself in her head. Mostly for strength, and clarity of mind, and kindness.

When they go home, she works on her essay for a little while, but Quinn keeps thinking about her parents. She thinks about what her mom would think if she found out about Rachel, she thinks about what her father might say if he found out Quinn was gay and wasn’t attending church. But then she remembers, again, the way Steve’s face grew grave whenever he looked at his mother, struggling to speak, struggling to walk.

And finally, over dinner, Quinn asks, “Are you…still in touch with my father?”

It feels so weird to refer to him that way, especially to her mother.

Judy looks surprised. “Why do you ask?”

Quinn shrugs, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. “I mean, I don’t have a burning desire to talk to him, not really, but…a friend of mine, his mother is very sick. And seeing her made me worry for the first time about how I might feel if Dad were dying.” It feels equally weird to call him Dad, as if he is still a part of her life when he isn’t, hasn’t been for years.

Judy looks concerned, “Well, no, I’m not in direct contact with him.”

“Okay,” Quinn says quickly, ready to let the matter drop.

“But I would know if he were ill,” she continues. Quinn looks at her raising an eyebrow.

Her mother shrugs, “That’s the nature of our particular divorce. The money that’s still somewhat entangled, the legal battles. Even though we’ve both mostly moved on and aren’t really pressing matters with regard to money, our lawyers are still in contact, and so we are, indirectly.” Her head tilts, “Besides, Frannie would tell me.”

Quinn hadn’t thought of that. In her experience, Frannie tried to make a point to not tell anything about Russell to Judy, and probably the other way around, too.

Her mom watches her eat for a bit. “Do you miss him?” she finally asks.

“Not really,” Quinn answers, finding as she says it that it’s pretty true. “Do you?”

She looks nostalgic for a moment, then says, “Not really.”

They both smile.

“I guess it just sucks a little, that he doesn’t care about me anymore.” Quinn says bitterly.

“I don’t think it’s that he doesn’t care,” Judy says slowly, “I think it’s that your father is a very stubborn man, and also, his wife.”

“That…tattooed freak?” Quinn smirks.

Her mother chuckles, recalling the words. “Yes. Her. From what Frannie tells me, she’s very threatened by my existence. Russell is forbidden, by her, from talking to me. And you.”

“But why me, and not Frannie?” Quinn scowls.

“Because to his wife, you’re connected to me too closely. You’re part of the reason I kicked him out instead of trying to make things work after his infidelity. You’d think that would make her like you. It means she has him all to herself now, but…I suppose in her mind, if you were so important that it could split apart a marriage, you might be important enough to take him away from her.”

Quinn snorts bitterly. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s not rational. Love never is.”

Quinn meets her mother’s eye at those words, feeling abruptly exposed.

But Judy just continues. “Your father is a man who will probably never change. He may be too stubborn to admit he misses you for the rest of his life. Or maybe not. He’s also not built for fidelity. Maybe when his current marriage inevitably fails…maybe then, he’ll have the humility to ask for our forgiveness.”

“Would you?” Quinn asks, feeling horrified. “Would you take him back?”

“No,” her mother says calmly. “I’m not in love with him anymore. But he and I have a family together, and I wish, for the sake of you and Frannie, that we could be civil. I wish that you could talk to him if you wanted. But for now, it’s probably better he’s out of your life.”

“You think so?” Quinn asks warily.

“Yes. You’re still young, and you’re freer away from him than with him. I can’t control what he does, but if he ever contacts you again, I hope you’re an adult, and secure, and sure of yourself.”

Quinn digests that, and then says lightly, “So you think that’ll happen when the tattooed freak to divorces him, huh?”

“It’s ironic, you using that term,” Judy raises an eyebrow at her. “I seem to remember a point in time you looked a bit like her.”

Quinn laughs nervously, humorlessly. “Well. I might’ve been inspired.”

“I always thought that phase had something to do with your father,” her mom sounds a bit forlorn. “I wish I’d been able to help you more, when you were struggling with missing him.”

“I…it wasn’t really about that,” Quinn confesses.

“No?” Judy is surprised. “What was it about?”

“…Beth, mostly.” Even now, it’s hard to say her name in front of her mother. Her mom just smiles wistfully, so Quinn continues, “And…just trying to figure out who I was.”

“And who are you?”

It’s a kind of terrifying question, but Quinn plays it off humorously. “Well, not a tattooed freak, apparently.” She gestures at her rather pretty dress, smiling.

“Ah. Well, I can’t figure out why you were dressing like that, if it isn’t you.”

Quinn sobers and stares at her plate for a few moments. She’s basically done, so she puts down her fork, and looks up at her mother. “I was trying to push you away,” she admits.

Her mom looks like she’s had an epiphany. “Ahh,” she says, “You were looking like _her_ , to make me angry.”

“Yeah,” Quinn nods.

“Why?”

Quinn is silent for a long while. Everything is running through her mind, how she was struggling with realizing she was attracted to women at that time, even though she wasn’t nearly ready to admit to being gay. The struggle was there. The feelings were there. The aching, gaping hole in her chest that was Beth was there. Her father was gone, her mother could reject her if she ever found out Quinn might be…whatever she was. Whatever she was afraid she was becoming.

It felt easier, at the time, to push her mother out of her life than to risk them getting closer, to risk them having a real relationship to break if it turned out Quinn would lose her, too. It had hurt enough to lose her Daddy. If it hurt that much to lose her mother, too, on top of everything else…Quinn was sure she’d die.

It’s funny, then, how she realizes just how long she knew in the back of her mind that she was gay. Even if back then she was clouding the terms, pretending she could be something else, but she knew. God, she knew, and it terrified her.

Which is why it’s almost funny to her, now, that she retaliated by dressing so _gay_.

Finally, Quinn gives the safest answer she can. “I was afraid of losing you, too.”

Her mother just watches her compassionately. “I know I didn’t deserve it then, and still don’t deserve it now, but I wish I you could trust me, that I would never let that happen to you again.”

“It wasn’t that,” Quinn says quickly, tears springing to her eyes. “It wasn’t you.” She falls silent.

Slowly, Judy nods. Quinn can’t see her expression through her tear-blurred vision. “Tell me, dear.”

Quinn inhales a sobbing breath. “I was terrified you’d reject me because I’m gay,” she spills out in a rush, squeezing her eyes shut.

“I know,” her mother responds.

Quinn’s world seems to freeze and collapse all at once. The tears in her eyes are streaming out now, and she holds her breath for so long at the confession that it takes a racking sob to restart her breathing. She nearly hyperventilates, and Judy begins to stand, concerned, but Quinn holds up her hands. She needs space. She needs…

“ _How_ ,” she finally manages, voice thick.

From what she can see, Judy’s expression is a little pained. “From your accident.”

“ _What_?” it makes no sense. None. How did her car accident expose her as gay?

“When you were on painkillers. You were barely conscious, but you talked to me. We talked a lot that night. And I asked you, where were you going? How did this happen? And all you could tell me was that you had to get to the wedding. I didn’t know what wedding you were talking about, so I asked whose, and you told me Rachel and Finn’s.”

Quinn is listening with rapt attention. She had no idea this conversation ever took place. Obviously, since she was out of her mind of painkillers.

“I knew who Finn was, of course, but not Rachel, until you described her. And then you told me you were so sad they were getting married, but you wanted to be there for it. You had to watch it happen. I asked if you were sad because Finn was getting married, and you scoffed at me, and told me, no, you didn’t care about him at all.”

Quinn smiles at this. She can almost hear herself.

“So I asked, then why are you so sad? And you told me, because Rachel is far too special for him.” Her mother pauses. “At that moment, I was a little scared. I asked you to tell me more about Rachel, and the more you talked, the more obvious it was to me that…that she mattered more to you than any of your boyfriends ever did. That you loved her.”

Quinn swallows, and nods shakily.

Her mother looks away. “I must admit, I didn’t react well to this. I told you I didn’t want to hear about Rachel anymore, and you went quiet. And then, I had to worry about you surviving. I was irrationally angry with Rachel, for putting you in the position that got you into the car accident. That’s part of why I didn’t let you have any visitors, because I didn’t want to see her, but also because, I was afraid of what you’d say. You see, I didn’t want anybody to know what you’d just told me.”

She feels like her heart is shattering, and her body floods with adrenaline. Her mother isn’t accepting this. Her mother _hates_ this.

“It took me time,” her mother finally says. “Because first I had to ensure you would live. And then I had to ensure you would be comfortable, at home, in your wheelchair. And I had to take care of you, and make sure you would walk again. And all that did for me was solidify the fact that I loved you so much.” She sighs in a shaky breath. “But it was hard. Back when you told me Santana was gay, I suppose a part of me was afraid you might be, too, and I purposely told you something I hoped would keep you from telling me about this part of your life. I hoped, somewhere in the darkest part of my heart, that I could shame you into marrying a nice young man someday, and that you would be better. I wish I could take it back now, because it hurt so much to know I hurt you. I could see it on your face. And once you told me, once I knew for sure, I struggled, but I’ve learned, since then. I’ve done reading. I got some books from PFLAG. I watched _For the Bible Tells Me So_ and _Lead with Love_. I’ve learned that all the objections I had were wrong, and dangerous, and damaging. I just didn’t know how to tell you, because everything I read told me I should wait for you to come out to me. So all I could do was try to tell you I love you just the way you are, and that I am _so_ proud of you.”

They’re both crying freely now, even though Quinn wants to laugh because her mother pronounces every letter of the PFLAG acronym, but she gets up on shaky legs to go and give her mother a real and hard hug. Her mother hugs back just as strong. And it’s surreal, and scary, and exhilarating that they’ve finally made themselves so vulnerable to each other. In ways that haven’t happened since Quinn was in a wheelchair, literally forced to be vulnerable for her mother. But this time, she isn’t resentful. And this time, Judy is honest about her own feelings in return.

After a few moments, Quinn murmurs into her mother’s shoulder, “Mom? Do you still wish I could meet that nice young man?”

Judy chuckles tearfully. “Oh, Quinn, a tiny part of me will always wish for you to have the easiest life. But most of me just wishes for you to have the happiest life, and knows that truly, the easiest life will come from you being happy and true to yourself. So no. Not truly.”

It’s a tiny pinprick of hurt, but Quinn understands what her mother was trying to say. She can accept that it’s difficult for her mother to fully understand. She can accept that her mother is trying.

Most importantly, she can accept that her mother loves her.

“About Rachel…” she finally says slowly, after she’s sat back down.

Judy raises an eyebrow.

“She’s my girlfriend,” Quinn confesses, unable to stop a little smile.

Judy exhales a long breath. “Then everything worked out for the best.”

 

_All the gold and the guns in the world_

 

She has to admit, having a fuckbuddy has worked out a lot better than she could’ve anticipated.

It’s easy. They might send friendly texts sometimes, or links to things they think the other will like, but most of their conversations revolve around when they’re going to have sex again.

They don’t even necessarily preface sex with dinner or anything first anymore, although, they do enjoy each other’s company, so dinner or coffee is fine when they want it. Angela mostly pays still, and Santana mostly lets her. Still, their schedules are so opposite that it’s hard sometimes to find the time to hang out without the context of just having sex.

So sometimes, she just heads right over to Angela’s apartment, is let in, and they go straight to the bedroom. Sometimes it’s basically right after she wakes up, and she has to leave shortly after the sex to get ready for work. Sometimes, if she has the night off, it’s a little later, but Angela is such an early riser because of her schedule that it’s never _too_ late. Besides, Santana is never thrilled about the idea of taking public transportation alone late at night, especially when there’s no guarantee that Kurt or Rachel are around to meet her.

She’s starting to see a little more what Angela means about foreplay, though. Because sometimes she’ll tease with explicit texts all day (or at least, from the moment Santana wakes up), so that they’re both kind of already really turned on by the time they meet up. Sometimes, on the bus on the way over, Santana is just biting her lip to cover a smirk as she sends filthy texts the whole way there. She just really never knew to consider that a kind of foreplay, and not just teasing.

One other plus was that Angela had convinced Santana to go get tested. They both went, shared their results, and since then, oral sex has been on the menu, so to speak. Which is amazing, because, of course, Santana loves eating pussy, and also because it turns out, Angela is _really_ good at it.

She’s had a lot of practice, she explains. And there’s an awkward moment in which Santana is sure that if Angela were her girlfriend, she’d be bothered by how many people she may have slept with. But since she’s not, all she is is grateful.

It seems stupid, but she can’t quite work through why it would matter.

One night, she and Angela have each gotten the other really worked up through texts that afternoon. When Santana gets there, Angela is still trying to start slow, with kisses, and pressing their bodies together, but finally Santana just gasps that she doesn’t have the patience for foreplay.

Angela laughs, low, and begins to take off Santana’s clothes. Santana opens her legs once her underpants are off, her heart already hammering, and Angela just stares reverently between them for a moment, stroking the wetness with her fingers briefly, which just makes Santana shiver.

But then she’s adjusting herself on the mattress, leaning over, and connecting her lips with Santana’s pussy.

It really doesn’t take too long. Angela has learned, more from Santana’s reactions than her words, how Santana likes to be licked. Santana opens hazy eyes to watch a blonde head moving between her thighs, looking down Angela’s body to notice the way she’s grinding into the mattress.

Honestly, she isn’t aware of much when she comes, but she does notice the muffled moan Angela makes, head still between Santana’s legs, at around the moment Santana comes.

When she blinks open her eyes, Angela is staring dazedly, wiping off her chin. “Fuck. I just came a little watching you.”

Santana feels a warm rush all over her body at the words, and in that moment, she’s never felt sexier. “Yeah?” she asks breathlessly.

“Yeah. Holy shit.”

“Can you come again?” Santana asks.

“I think so,” Angela nods.

“Why don’t you…” Santana settles back against some pillows and gestures at her head.

“You want me to sit on your face?” Angela asks, humor in her voice.

“Well, yeah,” Santana scowls.

Angela just grins, shakes her head, and begins climbing up Santana’s body. She settles her shins on either side of Santana’s head and lowers herself so that she’s hovering just above Santana’s mouth.

Santana pushes her face up to touch.

It’s funny. It’s something Brittany loved, but Santana had always felt funny about. So it wasn’t often that Brittany was in the position she’d invited Angela to be in. But she likes it, she realizes. She likes looking up the length of Angela’s body, looking at her breasts, and between them to catch her eyes, half-closed in pleasure. She liked that she can wrap an arm around a strong thigh, or lift it to grasp a breast.

But she also has learned what Angela prefers, and knows she likes to be fingered. So she slides a hand around to rest below her chin, sliding fingers up and inside. Angela moans. Santana watches intently, and it really doesn’t take long for her to get Angela off after that.

This is when she finds out that Angela can come, a lot. Like many times in a row.

Not like how she could come a little from watching Santana and still be ready to come more a few minutes later. That was fairly normal as far as Santana knew. She and Brittany used to have sex for hours back when they first started, the rare times they knew they wouldn’t be interrupted. They’d give each other just enough of a rest and then going right back at it. They had kind of settled down by the time they were actually dating, and though sometimes it was fun to go for a few rounds of sex at a time, mostly they were fine with both coming once, and then cuddling.

But this isn’t that kind of multiple orgasm. This is…

This is Angela, shaking against her mouth, trembling around her fingers, then coming, hard. Due to the angle, Santana doesn’t really try to stop as she comes down from the orgasm, and a split second later, she’s coming _again_. So Santana doesn’t even really stop, and she rapidly loses count of how many orgasms happen until Angela is just gripping the headboard and forcing herself to rise off Santana’s face and collapse next to her in bed.

“Holy shit,” Santana finally utters.

“I think that’s my line,” Angela murmurs weakly, still a boneless heap.

“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Santana admits.

Angela smiles a little, eyes still closed, “Never seen that before, huh?”

“Was that multiple orgasms or just like one long crazy one?”

Angela manages a shrug. “Who can tell? All I know is it happens sometimes. And it’s really, really good when it does.”

“Damn,” Santana laughs. “I wish I could do that.”

“Maybe you can,” Angela says thoughtfully, “I mean, I’m not Cosmo, I don’t go around telling women they’re capable of every crazy orgasm fad that crops up, but…” she shrugs, “The more you explore, the more you might find.”

Santana doubts it. She feels like Brittany would have discovered how to make it happen if it were possible for her.

But she has to admit, she doesn’t know. Because there are things going on here, with her sex with Angela, that make her feel different than any sex with Brittany. That flush of satisfaction she felt, knowing Angela cam just from going down on her. That pride she felt just now, watching Angela come again and again above her…

For the first time, she realizes that maybe she’s not just learning things she can bring back to the bedroom with Brittany.

Maybe there are things she simply can’t just transfer onto another woman in bed.

Maybe it’s Angela _herself_ who is making this sex so incredible.

 

_The shot won’t kill me it still bruises skin_

 

Two days after the conversation with her mother that night, now back in New Haven, Quinn calls Rachel. At first, Rachel is worried, because Quinn sounds shaken, a little. But as soon as Quinn is able to really verbalize, Rachel recognizes the elation in her voice.

Quinn had come out to her mother. As far as she’s concerned, the scariest part of being out is behind her. As far as she is concerned, she doesn’t care who knows.

While Rachel is glad for her, and proud of her, still being uncertain with how to handle her own coming out makes her worried about Quinn just telling _anyone_. But they talk, and Rachel agrees that she really doesn’t mind if any of their high school friends know. Quinn is ready to put “In a Relationship with Rachel Berry” on her Facebook profile, and Rachel is ready to accept that. She can control who can see it, so that no one from NYADA will, but Quinn is considering showing it to all her friends except a few cousins she was friended to.

She wonders, if anyone she isn’t prepared for saw it, if she could play it off that they were just best friends playing around, pretending to be girlfriends for the laughs. Maybe not, if Quinn is also planning to label herself as gay on her profile. Did girls still do that? Rachel didn’t think she’d be able to play herself off as that kind of girl.

There are some great reactions to the post that they are dating. A few “?????” from some cheerleaders Rachel doesn’t really know. A simple “hot” from Puck.  A “wow, never saw that coming, congrats ladies!” from Sam. A “Heyooooo” from Artie. Santana just responds with “gross.” Kurt counters, “Grossly cute.” Rachel is still surprised he seems to be so into the idea of her and Quinn dating.

But there is someone they forgot. Because Finn posts a response that just says, “what the fuck.”

Rachel deletes the response, but a few minutes later, she gets a call from Quinn.

“Did you see it?” Quinn asks, without an introduction.

“Yes,” Rachel answers, voice thick.

Quinn sighs. “Did you delete it?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” Quinn whispers. “Fuck. I got too excited. Fuck. I need to change who can see this, how do I do that on my phone?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel answers quietly.

Quinn inhales shakily. Rachel can almost see her rubbing her face anxiously. “Okay. This is okay. He’s been the only bad reaction. Who can see it on your page?”

“Pretty much just people we were in Glee with,” Rachel answers.

“Okay. I did everyone from college and people from high school I labeled as friends rather than acquaintances. So we have some control over this.” She sounds steadier now. “It’s mostly people we trust.”

They’re quiet for a moment, until Rachel says, “Except Finn.”

“Yeah. I guess except him. I…honestly didn’t think about how he might feel.”

“He has _no right_ to feel so hurt,” Rachel begins hotly, but then there’s a knock on her bedroom door. “Come in!” she calls.

Kurt pushes the door open, eyes wide, phone in his hand. “I just hung up with Finn. He is freaking the hell out. He’s furious with you two, and with me for not telling him.” He shakes his head. “One of you _has_ to talk to him, he’s in enough of a bad place on top of this.”

Rachel feels a pang. Finn, on the other side of the world. Using social media and Skype to keep up with people, but ultimately cut off from everyone.

On the one hand, she understands why he would feel hurt to find out something like this the way he did, but on the other hand, she thinks, doesn’t he have better things to worry about?

But she tells Kurt. “I’ll talk to him.”

Kurt nods distractedly. “It’s early morning there. He’s usually on the computer for a little while around now. You can probably catch him.”

Rachel tells Quinn she’ll call her back when she smoothes things over with Finn. Quinn agrees to let her go reluctantly.

Rachel logs into her Gmail and right away notices Finn’s name is online.

 

 **Rachel:** Finn?

 

 **Finn:** what do you want

 

 **Rachel:** I just wanted to see how you were

 

 **Finn:** I’m great. I just found out my two exs  
are fucking and im great.

 

 **Rachel:** I’m really sorry we upset you

 

 **Finn:** how could you do this to me rachel

How

It’s fucked up

 

 **Rachel:** I didn’t do anything to you.

 

 **Finn:** like hell

 

 **Rachel:** My discovery that I have feelings  
for Quinn has absolutely nothing to do with  
you.

I’m sorry we hurt you, but you can’t have  
expected me to be waiting for you once you  
finished your deployment!

 

At that, Finn’s name disappears from her list. She tries to contact him again, but he appears to have blocked her. She frowns, and calls Quinn back.

“That was fast,” Quinn answers. “Did you soothe the savage beast?”

“I…don’t think so,” Rachel answers quietly. “I think I made him more mad.”

“What did you say to him??” Quinn asks, shocked.

Rachel bites her lip, “I told him this had nothing to do with him.”

Quinn sighs. “Oh, geez…”

“What?”

“It’s Finn. He thinks everything has something to do with him. That wasn’t going to calm him down.”

“But it’s true!”

“You and I both know that! We have to approach this from his side. Figure out why he’s so upset.” There’s a pause, and Rachel tries to think, but she honestly doesn’t know why he might be acting like such an asshole if a part of him _wasn’t_ hoping she would be waiting for him when he got back. “I’m going to talk to him,” Quinn finally says.

“And say what?” Rachel asks incredulously.

“I don’t know yet. But I get why he didn’t want to talk to you. He wanted to hear it _from_ you, because you were his ex.”

“You’re his ex, too!” Rachel protests.

“But you’re the ex he almost _married_. He thought he deserved better, when clearly, we’ve both forgotten him,” she sounds guilty now. “Give me to Kurt.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

 

_It’s always the old to lead us to the war, it’s always the young to fall_

 

From Kurt, Quinn discovers that Finn doesn’t exactly have a phone number there, but he uses Skype to phone people. He sometimes video chats with his mom, apparently, but mostly sticks to using Gchat, Facebook messages and the occasional Skype voice call to talk to people.

So Quinn gets out her computer and logs onto Skype, thankful that she has the dorm room to herself while Stephanie is in class. She’s surprised to note that she actually has his name added there. She must’ve added it back when they were dating or something, although she can’t remember why, because she doesn’t think she’s ever used it. She starts out by sending him a message.

 

 **Quinn:** Hey.

 

 **Finn:** what do you want

 

 **Quinn:** To talk to you.

 

 **Finn:** well if your going to be a bitch like  
your gf don’t bother

 

 **Quinn:** I’m sorry about her. She was wrong.  
We both owe you an apology. We both  
owed it to you to tell you about us so that  
you wouldn’t have to find out from  
Facebook.

 

There’s silence for a bit, and Quinn wonders if she’s succeeded in placating him some. If maybe she realized part of what it was that was making him so angry.

 

 **Quinn:** Would you video chat with me? I’d  
like to apologize to your face, if you’d let  
me.

 

There’s another short stretch of silence, and then a sound notification, and Finn Hudson is calling her.

At first, their connection seems bad. She can hear some scrambled sounds in the background. She makes sure her camera is on, though, and sits calmly and waits, until finally, his camera comes on, too.

He’s sitting somewhere fairly dark, with plain walls, and he looks different, a little, from when she saw him around Thanksgiving. His short hair has grown out a little bit, messily. His face looks a little gaunter. His eyes look tired, face sparsely stubbled, although that might just be because he’s in shadow. He looks older than she is.

“Hi,” she says, smiling just a little, because it is weirdly good to see him.

He smiles weakly back, “Hi.”

It’s something. It’s progress. It’s harder to be mad at him now that she can see him, and maybe the same is true for him.

“I’m really sorry,” she says again. “We should’ve told you.”

He rubs his face, “Fuck, Quinn, I just…” he starts, and lowers his head. He pauses for such a long time that Quinn wonders if the video has frozen, before his head lifts. “I just had no idea. No idea.”

She nods. “We were both doing the coming-out thing pretty slowly. I only started telling people I was gay in December. Rachel only just realized she’s bisexual a few months ago.” It seems important to her, somehow, to let him know their sexualities. To let him know that with her, their good times were good in spite of her being gay, and for Rachel, their good times were good because she actually did love him.

“I get it,” he says quickly, “It’s up to you who and how you come out, I know that now, but man, it just _stung_.”

“Why?” Quinn asks softly, and when his eyes flash, she continues quickly, “I don’t mean why like, why are you hurt, because I understand that somewhat, but more like…what about it hurt so much that you got angry? I want to know, so I can apologize.”

There’s a long moment, as Finn just studies her, then he admits, “Man, I don’t even _know_. That seems crazy, I guess, for me to go off the handle about something I don’t even get, but…I don’t know. It hurt to read on Facebook. I thought it was a joke, but then there were other people who didn’t sound surprised. I couldn’t believe Kurt knew and hadn’t told me. I just…felt like the last person on earth to find out, and I don’t know. I thought I mattered more than that.”

Quinn tries to keep her voice very steady, very calm, “But we really haven’t spoken in a long time, and you hurt Rachel last fall.”

“I _know_ ,” he says again, emphatically. “I know we’re not best friends, and I know I may have ruined things so that Rachel and I might never be friends again, but you and I…” he trails off, “I thought we respected each other.”

Quinn feels defensive. “Okay, are you trying to enact the bro code on me? Because no. You don’t get to tell me I can’t date your ex.”

“I’m _over_ Rachel!” he almost yells. They’re quiet, and he sighs heavily. “I think it hurt to realize that, too,” he says flatly.

And then, and Quinn isn’t sure why at first, he starts typing.

 

 **Finn:** It just sucks. Im over here doing  
something that’s supposed to make me a  
hero and it feels like everyones forgotten  
me. it feels like im the only guy in my unit  
without a girl or guy waiting for him at  
home

My mom is busy, burt is busy, kurt is busy.  
Puck is busy and im still trying to figure out  
how to be good friends with him again

Sometimes I catch friends on chat in the  
morning or whatever but we dont usually  
have a chance to talk long. Ica nt tell my  
mom wahts realy going on over here and  
every time I start to try to tell a friend theyre  
lik shit ive gtg talk to you later. And I know  
its rotten timing but rotten timing is all I  
have on the other side of the wrold

Im lonely. And tot op it off I fucking hate it  
here. Its terrifying. I cant sleep most nights.  
Its 4am and im hidden away in a shower  
stall with my computer so I can talk to my  
ex girlfriend whose dating my other  
exgirlfriend and I just want to go home

Im tired of the fear and the anger that is with  
me every day. Im tired of not sleeping and  
stress dreams and missing everyone close to  
me. im tried of being scared of anyone who  
isn’t american and being terrified im gonna  
kill a bunch of my friends if I fuck  
something up on aircraft. im tired of seeing  
everyday that people have better things to do  
than pay attention t te fact that im fuckin  
losing my mind over here

I wish I could leave. I wish there was an  
easy way for me to be like you know what  
im done I cant do it anymore send me home,  
but theres not. I can’t even claim to be gay  
and get dishorably discharged. I have to reall  
really fuck up to leave here and then it might  
be in a body bag or to military court

And this this happens todauy nd I dunno I  
guess I just ran out of patience. I guess I just  
got treied of being invisble to you people

And im over rachel. That makes its all te  
harder because she was my rock thru boot  
camp. I was so sure we’d get back together.  
And now I have no rock. I cant even pretend  
because you took her from me

And im not mad at you. Shes an amazing  
person to love. Im not mad at her. Your  
amazing too. There are reasons ive loved  
you both

Its just hard to be the guy left behind  
whensome days I feel like I have nothing  
anyways

 

Guilt wracks Quinn. Not because she’s dating Rachel, but because Finn is obviously spiraling— _has_ been spiraling—and she doesn’t know if anyone has noticed it.

He’s rubbing at his face after typing all that, and though it’s hard to see, Quinn thinks he might be crying.

“I’m so sorry,” is all she says at first.

Finn blinks rapidly and shrugs a little. “I just feel stupid,” he whispers croakily.

“Don’t,” she tells him, “Listen, you need to talk to somebody. Anybody. Is there anyone you can talk to?”

He frowns, “The chaplain I guess, but…I dunno. I’m not really very religious.”

“You don’t have to be,” Quinn continues, “You don’t have to talk about God or anything. You just need to talk about how you’re feeling. He can help you process all these feelings. Help you work through them. Because you’re driving yourself nuts right now, and you’re going to crash and burn.”

He winces. Perhaps it was a poor choice of words. He looks off the side and says quietly, “I did this so that I could bring honor to my dad. But now I’m so afraid I’m going to end up just like him.”

“You won’t,” Quinn assures him, knowing as she says it that it’s not something she can promise, and possibly that it’s too late, Finn has already been too hurt by the horrible realities of war. Well, not even really war, but being so close to a hostile force. Peacekeeping is a misnomer, really. “There are people here who really care about you. Even though our history is convoluted, I want you to take care of yourself. I want you to talk to somebody, make it through this, and come home to us safely, okay?”

“Then what?” he asks meekly.

“Then? Whatever makes you happy, Finn.”

He’s silent, as if imagining what that might be. Finally, he sighs heavily and nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll do what I can,” he simply says.

Quinn isn’t sure what kind of promise he’s making, or what he’s going to do.

“You know, if I weren’t so gay, I would’ve loved you an awful lot,” she tells him with a smirk.

He chuckles, once, “I know. I loved you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Kylie Minogue, “2 Hearts,” Frank Ocean, “Swim Good,” Lady Gaga, “Bloody Mary,” Metric, “Gold Guns Girls,” Youth Lagoon, “Cannons,” and Phil Ochs, “I Ain’t Marching Anymore.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Billy: Puck's coworker, about his mom's age, fellow cook at the diner, Puck wants to respect him  
> Malcolm: Puck's coworker, fellow cook at the diner, his age, high school dropout, also a drug dealer  
> Joey: Night dishwasher, friend of Malcolm, also a drug dealer  
> Georgie: Puck's boss, who owns the restaurant, mostly hangs out in the back  
> Steve: Stephanie's ex-boyfriend, dropped out of Yale to help take care of his mom, who has ALS  
> Angela: Santana's fuckbuddy, met through work, she is also friends with Helen, Santana's coworker who doesn't talk to her anymore


	40. And a bold world for me

_And a bold world for me_

 

Maybe it’s because of working on the song with Sam, or maybe because of talking to Becky, but Puck’s been inspired lately. He’s been playing his guitar more than he has in awhile.

He still does other things, sure. Like nap. And play video games. And go to work. And sell product. But he’s also been playing. Making up songs. Singing a little, too.

Sam is very busy. The play just went on this week, and the musical will happen in about a month. His role in the play isn’t quite as large, but it’s still takes up about as much free time as he has. The rest of his time, he spends working and doing homework.

But once the play is over, Sam asks if Puck wants to hang out. Puck says absolutely, and heads over to Sam’s house.

Finn’s mom fusses over him a little when he arrives, which is nice. Tells him he looks handsome, asks if he’s getting enough sleep, offers him some Gatorade. Puck takes it with surprise, tells her she looks great, and heads to Sam’s room.

Sam stands up from whatever he’s been typing on his computer to give Puck a slap on the shoulder in greeting. Puck holds up the Gatorade he was offered questioningly.

Sam laughs, “Oh yeah. Carole stopped buying sodas awhile back. Best we have, bro.”

Puck shrugs, “Not a big deal.”

Sam grins and picks up his guitar from the corner of the room, tuning it half-consciously. “Our original song was really good.”

“I know. I was there,” Puck reminds him.

Sam smiles, “I know you were. I’m just saying, we did awesome. We should write another.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking we should write a lot of songs together.”

Puck laughs uncomfortably. “Yeah, well, unless you’re planning to stick around Lima…”

“I’m not,” Sam says easily, “I’m going to LA to be with Mercedes after I graduate.”

“You are?” Puck asks, surprised. It hurts a little, that he didn’t even know this.

Sam nods, “Sure. She’s looking for a place to live. I’ve already scoped out some places to apply for jobs. Still debating whether I want to go to school or not. I don’t know what I’d want to study, but I did put in some late applications for a couple of the schools in that area.”

“Well, good for you,” Puck says, trying not to sound begrudging.

Sam strums a few chords on his tuned instrument and eyes Puck, “Weren’t you going to go to California?”

“Didn’t work out. Clearly,” Puck grunts.

“Why not?”

Puck shrugs sullenly and doesn’t answer.

“Well,” Sam says, watching him carefully, “If you want to go this year, would you like to live with Mercedes and I?”

Puck feels like the world has expanded around him. “What?”

“I mean, I understand if you don’t want to live with us, and be third wheel or whatever, but honestly, it’d be cheaper for us all to share a place. Mercedes has scoped out a few little two-bedroom houses in some of the not-so pricy neighborhoods, and they’re a pretty good deal. A lot of them have a washer and dryer. And a driveway, which is good because we’ll all need a car in that city. She hasn’t made any offers of a place yet, but…should I tell her you’re interested?”

Puck swallows. “Yes. Definitely. Yes.”

“Cool,” Sam smiles easily, “I think it’d be good, you know? I mean, I’m sure you could restart your pool business, but for a hobby, maybe a little extra cash…we could do music.”

“We could,” Puck agrees, “Mercedes, too.”

Sam nods, “Even if she doesn’t want to make music with us, she has connections now.”

“This is…this is awesome. Thanks, Sam.”

“No problem,” he answers easily, “It just made sense, you know? And I thought it might help make it affordable for you to go if you had someone going with you.”

Puck laughs a little, and is already imagining what it might be like, to drive out west in his truck with Sam, crossing plains and mountains and desert to make a new home. Like the trip he made with Finn, but different, because it wouldn’t be about rebuilding a friendship, it’d be about building a family. Sam and Mercedes would be his family now.

The next day, he goes out behind the restaurant when Malcolm and Joey are having a meeting with their connection. Puck hands him a paper bag, and he looks in it. “What is this?” he asks.

“The weed I still had, and the money I owe you. I’m out, man. I can’t do it anymore.”

Malcolm stares at him, his eyes angry slits. The guy shrugs, “Fuck you,” he says easily.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Puck says, “I’m not going to get you guys in trouble. I’m just done. One of you can take this cell phone if you want. Take any customers that text.”

Joey snatches it, and Malcolm glares at him. “Your loss,” the guy says again, “Get outta here.”

“I’m gone,” Puck promises, and walks back into the restaurant.

He has money saved up now, from his job and from his dealings. He can make a little more cleaning pools before he goes. He should have plenty to help him make the move across the country, and even some to leave for his mom.

Because, he thinks, she’ll be fine. Without him her, her costs will go down. And if she still needs money…he can send her some from California if he has to.

But he can’t miss this opportunity to make his dreams come true, with Sam and Mercedes.

 

_You wish young eyes could see you grow older_

 

She’s in class, back in school after the weekend in which she came out to her mother, when her phone starts buzzing.

She’s a little embarrassed, even though it’s relatively quiet, and lifts it out of her messenger bag just enough to send it to voicemail before anyone starts staring at her. As she does, she sees that it’s Puck, which is weird enough. He never calls, they really only text each other.

Even so, she forgets that he’s called until she’s back in her dorm room, starting to get to work on some homework. There’s a big essay she should really start working on…

Her phone goes off again, and then she remembers the call. Stephanie glances up, distracted by the sound, and Quinn smiles apologetically as she answers, “Puck? What’s up?”

“Hey,” he sounds anxious, “I, uh. Did you get a call?”

“From you? Yeah,” she rolls her eyes.

“No, not from me, from…someone else.”

Quinn looks at Stephanie, who seems a little annoyed at the distraction, so she mouths an apology and begins to leave the dorm room, “That’s really descriptive. Why do you want to know my phone records?”

“Because I just got a call from Shelby,” he finally says.

Quinn stops, halfway finished with closing the door, and it takes her almost five full seconds to remember to close it the whole way. Then she just sinks to the ground outside her room. “What?”

“She…well, she said she was going to be in Lima for a little bit in early May, and wanted to see us. You know. Wanted Beth to see us.”

Quinn’s heart throbs and anger boils in her. “Fuck. No, I never got that call, and fucking fuck hell, that’s when my finals are.”

Puck’s quiet for a moment, and says, “Well, I told her you would probably not be in town, and that you were at Yale. She sounded really impressed and all.”

“Great,” Quinn rolls her eyes. “That does me a lot of good.”

“You should call her,” Puck says.

“What?” Quinn asks. She heard him, but it doesn’t seem to make sense.

“Well, I mean, she doesn’t have your number anymore. Just mine. But she said you could call her. She lives in New York now, so like…maybe you could go see her.”

Quinn’s mouth is dry, “Are you…sure she wanted me to see Beth, too?”

“Yeah,” Puck says, “Definitely. Especially after I told her how you were doing.”

“And what _did_ you tell her?” Quinn asks, afraid, suddenly, that Shelby might know too much.

“I mean, just that you were at Yale and stuff. I didn’t tell her anything…you know. Personal. Like about Rachel.”

Quinn exhales. “Good. Good, okay.”

“That’s really awesome, by the way,” Puck says, sounding a little more lighthearted. “You and Rachel.”

“If you make some kind of threesome joke, I swear, Puckerman…”

He laughs, “I knew I wouldn’t have to. You’d think of it all on your own.”

“Asshole,” she says, but she’s smiling.

“I’ll text you her number,” he tells her. “You should see her.”

“Yeah…” Quinn says wistfully.

“I’m just glad I might have the chance. I’m moving to California this summer, with Sam and Mercedes.”

“Really? That’s great, Puck.”

“Yeah.” He sounds pleased and proud, and she suspects he’s been trying to find a way to tell her this. She remembers, selfishly, getting mad at him last year when he was planning to leave. It really wasn’t her place, she knows now, to demand he stay somewhere. He has his own future to think about.

“Well, take pictures when you see her,” Quinn says softly. “And if I have the chance, I’ll do the same.”

“You’ll have the chance. Call her, Quinn.”

“I will.”

 

_Be a world child, form a circle_

 

The talk with Shelby is surprisingly easy. When Quinn explains that she won’t be in Lima when Shelby will because of her finals, Shelby seems very receptive to perhaps meeting in New York. She isn’t interested in meeting at her home, however. Not that Quinn can really blame her. The last time she was allowed in Shelby’s home, it had been…a little screwed up. She can fully admit that now.

So they are going to meet in Central Park that weekend. Quinn understands the strategy immediately. If it isn’t going well, Shelby can claim Beth is cold, or it’s too windy, or any Spring weather condition, to escape the meeting and go home without losing face or having to tell Quinn she had changed her mind. It’s public, so there will be witnesses if Quinn does anything stupid. It makes sense.

It didn’t make her feel great, but it makes sense.

Quinn calls Rachel soon afterwards. “I’m going to be in New York this weekend. Mind if I stay with you?”

“Of course!” Rachel sounds surprised and eager, “What’s going on?”

Quinn hesitates. This has the potential to be weird. “I’m meeting, um, Shelby and Beth.” She tries to sound nonchalant, like this is completely normal, but she fails utterly.

Rachel gasps audibly. “Oh my God. Quinn!”

“Yeah. I know. At Central Park. She gave me the intersecting streets near one of her favorite spots, so…”

“I have to go with you,” Rachel decides.

“I…I don’t know,” Quinn hesitates.

“I don’t want to intrude,” Rachel backtracks, “I just thought…it might be good. I could support you. This is a big deal.”

“I want you there,” Quinn agrees, “I just…it’s Shelby, Rachel. I don’t want that to be…weird. I don’t want _us_ to be weird for her.”

Rachel snorts, “She’s forfeited any right to be upset about who I date!”

“I don’t want to confuse Beth, either.”

“Beth is two, Quinn. Almost three. At that age, very little about human relationships surprises or confuses children. Besides, she doesn’t see me as a relative and she’s a little too young to grasp the concept of biological mother. To her, we’ll just be some strange ladies who are very interested in her.”

“…You’re right,” Quinn acknowledges. But she doesn’t know what to do. Should she warn Shelby? It seems almost cruel to surprise Shelby with an appearance of the daughter she gave up when Quinn is there to see her own child she will never raise.

In the end, on the day of, she texts Shelby to simply tell her that Rachel will be coming with her. Shelby had merely responded with an “Okay,” so Quinn has no idea what to expect. What if she wouldn’t show up now? Would it have been better to surprise her? At least then, she’d see Beth for a split second before Shelby escaped.

They come up out of the underground on the west side of Central Park. Quinn thinks she walked through this area with Rachel, maybe somewhere near the Natural History Museum, but she’s not sure. It’s Rachel who mentally orients them and begins to lead Quinn toward the street Shelby named. Quinn is pretty sure she could do this if she wanted to—the grid of Manhattan is easy enough to figure out, after all—but she’s simply not in the state of mind to do so.

As they draw closer, Rachel reaches over and takes her hand. Quinn doesn’t object, just squeezes her hand harder. She can feel her heartbeat in her throat, already tight with unshed tears. Once they begin to walk into the park, her eyes never stop moving, and Rachel is the one following Shelby’s directions to an area near Strawberry Fields where she is waiting.

Somehow, Rachel is the one to see them first—Quinn can tell by the way her steps falter—and then, she sees them too.

She sees Shelby first, crouching off to the side of the walking path, dressed in a long navy blue spring jacket, skirt and heels, looking remarkably like Rachel in profile, so much so that Quinn’s eyes linger for a moment, taking in the startling similarity. And then her eyes dip immediately, to the little girl standing in front of Shelby.

She’s twisting a little, stubborn and restless, as Shelby attempts to straighten her little teal spring jacket, which is twisted about, the hood awkwardly flopping over her shoulder. She’s wearing little pastel green pants and tiny black buckled shoes. She has unkempt wavy dark blonde hair that falls in thin, baby-fine strands to her shoulders, held back from her face with a few barrettes.

Quinn sight blurs with tears, and Rachel tugs her hand to keep her walking. Shelby notices them and stands, keeping a hold on one of Beth’s hands as she does so. Beth is relatively untangled from her jacket, but appears completely uninterested in the approaching guests, instead squirming away behind Shelby, whining a little in frustration, eyes on a dog being walked by a passing man.

As they get closer, Quinn sees that Shelby has noticed their intertwined fingers, but she does not visibly react, except to just look for a few moments. And then, they’re standing awkwardly across from each other.

“Hello, Quinn, Rachel,” Shelby finally greets.

Quinn nods, still unable to speak, watching the little girl fidget next to her mother, attention everywhere else. Rachel murmurs a “Hello.”

“Beth,” Shelby says, kindly but authoritatively, “Say hello to Quinn and Rachel.”

Beth returns her attention to them at the prompt from her mother, gazing from Shelby to the two girls and back a few times. Finally she murmurs shyly, “Hi.”

Shelby gestures to Quinn, “Quinn is the lady who gave you to me, and Rachel is her friend.”

“Girlfriend, actually,” Rachel says boldly, spine straightening.

“Girlfriend,” Shelby amends without a hitch.

Beth is paying more attention to the two of them now, and Quinn still seems frozen. Rachel, too, seems frozen, her hand clasping Quinn’s fingers hard, perhaps because of what just happened.

“Are you sad?” Beth then asks Quinn, staring at her with a furrowed brow.

Quinn remembers her voice. “No,” she croaks, “I’m just…very happy to meet you, Beth.”

Beth asks, “Why?” and continues to study Quinn, until a gentle prompting from Shelby coaxes her to say in a practiced way, “Nice t’ meetcha, too.” Which is good, because Quinn doesn’t even know how to begin to answer her question.

Quinn had wanted to bring her something, anything, in case this whole meeting went wrong so Beth could have _something_ to remember her by, but in the end, hadn’t had a chance to find or buy something meaningful. But she vows, now, that she would certainly be sending Beth something for her birthday.

“Why don’t you show Quinn your toys, Beth?” Shelby prompts, opening her tote bag and extracting a small doll, one of the kids in the Barbie universe, Quinn thinks, with her hair chopped off, a plastic dog figurine, and a plastic dump truck.

Quinn crouches in the grass next to the bench, listening as Beth explains that the girl and the dog are best friends and ride in the back of the pickup truck and have adventures. They scoot the truck along the grass toward a nearby flowerbed, and Quinn listens to the stories Beth tells about what they do in this land of massive flowers, still mostly just green stalks.

Rachel crouches and listens for a little while, before standing and walking away to go stand by Shelby, giving Quinn’s shoulder a squeeze as she passes her. Quinn glances over a few times, and notes that Rachel’s posture is awkwardly stiff, but the two are talking, and watching them.

Quinn watches Beth play and narrate her playtime for almost twenty minutes, understanding most of her words, and asking her a few questions about herself as she does so, but Beth doesn’t have a lot of patience for her game being interrupted, so Quinn mostly just listens.

When Shelby says reluctantly that she has to get Beth to the sitter so she can get to work, Quinn asks if she can give Beth a hug. Beth appears uncertain, and looks at Shelby, who nods her approval, then leans over to wrap her little arms around Quinn’s neck.

Quinn hugs her back. She smells like baby shampoo and a little bit like Shelby’s perfume.

“Well, I think this went well,” Shelby says briskly. “Perhaps we can do it again sometime.”

“I’d like that,” Quinn answers softly. Rachel nods once, mutely.

As they leave, Rachel says, “I got her address for you. You know, to send a present to Beth.”

“Thank you,” Quinn says gratefully. “Was it…weird for you?”

Rachel shrugs, “A little,” is all she says.

Which is good, because Quinn is pretty preoccupied on her own right now.

She met Beth. A Beth who can walk and talk. A Beth with a short attention span who clearly loves her mother. A Beth who understands only basically who she is, has not yet grasped what she might mean to her someday, and mostly just wants to play.

She met Beth.

 

_We’ll be placing fingers through the notches in your spine_

 

Back at Rachel’s apartment, Rachel is full of sympathetic emotions for Quinn, and some angst of her own.

She’s happy Quinn is here. She’s happy Quinn got to see Beth. But as she lays down in the bed next to her, and Quinn snuggles up to her and rests her head on Rachel’s shoulder, there’s a little bit of darkness in Rachel’s heart. Still, she strokes Quinn’s hair comfortingly. Quinn has barely been verbal since they left the meeting with Beth. They got some dinner before heading back to the apartment. Santana is out, probably hanging out with her work friend (she’s implied that they’re hooking up, but Rachel can never be sure if Santana is exaggerating), and Kurt appears to be in his bedroom, probably needing to wind down by himself after a photo shoot in the afternoon. So Rachel just took Quinn into her bedroom so that they could have a quiet, safe space for Quinn to try to process her afternoon.

Quinn’s a very withdrawn person, and Rachel knows this. She knows it’s entirely possible Quinn won’t want or be able to talk about her feelings from the afternoon tonight. She might need some more time to process them, or even to decide what she actually wants to share with Rachel. Rachel hopes that someday Quinn won’t be so apt to hide most of her feelings from her, but their relationship is still new, maybe a month and a half old, and more than half of that time they’ve been apart. They’re still learning how to trust each other with their innermost thoughts and feelings.

So she strokes Quinn’s hair, and broods.

She feels kind of selfish, but these past few weeks, she has felt like she’s made sacrifices for Quinn that Quinn hasn’t even acknowledged. She’d allowed Quinn to list them as “in a relationship” on Facebook even though she’s still struggling with what that means personally and professionally, and who can know. She’s still that girl who, a month and a half ago, imagined herself with a woman for the big, scary public moments that define relationships and quailed, and no matter how strongly she feels about Quinn, these things still scare her a little. The Facebook fiasco had probably created an even bigger rift between her and Finn, which makes her sad, because she really does want to be his friend again someday. And now, the thing with Beth…even though she knows she invited herself along, and knows she purposely left Quinn alone with Beth and approached Shelby, she still feels a little bitter.

Seeing Shelby had hurt. She couldn’t help that her eye was drawn to Shelby, prone to picking out every feature she had in common with her. She couldn’t help the stirring of her heart upon seeing the mother she had always wondered so much about, had always dreamed of knowing. And she couldn’t help reminding herself that having any kind of relationship with her mother would never happen. It would be too painful. There was too much of a risk of being abandoned again.

While Quinn had played with Beth, she and Shelby had talked, awkwardly. Rachel had asked how Beth was, Shelby had asked her how school was going, how she and Quinn were doing. She had been remarkably unfazed by their relationship, which Rachel appreciated, and she had asked how long they had been together. It was nice enough telling Shelby about Quinn and about school. That was conversation that was easy.

Then, she’d asked Shelby about her work, and discovered that Shelby was acting again. She was giving private voice lessons during the day, and was in an off-Broadway production of an original show in the evenings. She had made some good connections, and was already being considered for the lead in a revival of _Hello, Dolly!_. Rachel quashes her own jealousy and congratulates Shelby on her success, knowing that this has been Shelby’s dream as much as her own.

She’d also gotten Shelby’s address from her. When she’d asked, Shelby had looked a bit shocked, and then she’d explained, “Because Beth’s birthday is coming up, and I know Quinn would like to send her something.” Shelby’s expression had mellowed, and she’d dug around in her tote bag to find some paper and a pencil in order to write it down for Rachel. Rachel was relieved that she hadn’t asked for a phone number to text it.

But just before Shelby had made her departure, she’d look at Rachel and said, “So, we live in the same city, now.” Rachel had nodded, stiffly, suspicions already rising. “Maybe…” Shelby said slowly, “we could work on building a better relationship. I have missed out on the opportunity to be your mother, but…perhaps I could still be a friend of some kind. A confidant. A mentor, even. After all, as long as you’re dating Quinn, I’m certain we’ll be seeing each other around.”

Rachel had stared for a moment, trying to quash her own hope, trying not to show any outward signs of her own anxiety. Eventually, she’d just shrugged. “Maybe,” she’d conceded.

Shelby had nodded, as if that was the answer she’d expected, and had then told Quinn and Beth that it was time to leave. And though Rachel has tried to remain unaffected for the rest of the evening, tried to contain her own turmoil to help Quinn, she’s been stewing over it all evening. Was it a genuine offer? Was it one born of business, of professional interest? Was Shelby more interested in her as a possible connection in the business than as a daughter—no, never as a daughter, as a friend, or protégé, or whatever kind of relationship she has imagined for them.

And what does _Rachel_ want? Because it’s true, if she continues to date Quinn, she will probably end up seeing more of Shelby. She isn’t going to want to skip these meetings that are so important to Quinn. She isn’t going to want to miss watching Quinn’s daughter grow up, in leaps and bounds, from the likely relatively sporadic visits.

She doesn’t know. She wants to talk about it, sort of, but she doesn’t want to take Quinn out of the place where she got to see Beth and hold Beth and play with Beth and talk to Beth and…

Quinn shivers a little in her arms. Her eyes are closed. “Are you asleep?” Rachel whispers softly.

Quinn opens her eyes, “No,” she breathes, and smiles up at Rachel. “No, I’m pretty awake. Thank you for coming with me today, by the way.”

Rachel smiles, feeling that it’s a little forced. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you had a reason to come see me this weekend. I’ve missed you.”

Quinn wraps her arm a little tighter around Rachel’s middle. “Me, too.”

They fall silent again for a little while, just breathing together in the bedroom. Quinn has buried her face a little bit more into Rachel’s shoulder, her eyes are squeezed shut again. Rachel continues to stroke her hair, continues to think, continues to try to push aside her thoughts and just be happy to have Quinn with her, in her arms. It’s hard, because she has always been the type to let her feelings burst out, but right now, she cares so much about Quinn that she needs to wait to tell Quinn her thoughts.

“I think,” Quinn finally says softly, “I think I may have realized something recently.”

“Yeah?” Rachel asks, a little distracted. “What?”

Quinn takes a breath, and her eyes are open now, focusing on the closet door across the room. “I’m really not used to things going well for me,” she begins, and Rachel pushes her own thoughts away to really listen. Quinn is sharing herself. “Experience has taught me that I should never feel proud or hopefully because _something_ will happen soon that will destroy those feelings, but…this is the first time in a long time that my life hasn’t felt like an impending nightmare. I _somehow_ have been lucky enough to be dating you, something I dreamed about but never thought was remotely possible. My mother accepts me, and has really, really done well trying to learn the right ways to be supportive. I accept that my father and I may always be estranged, and that it’s up to him if we’ll ever speak again. I…I have Beth back in my life, and when I look at her, I no longer feel like I have to blame Puck for anything, because I’ve made peace with my decision to sleep with him, and with the mistakes we both made. I feel right with God. I’ve made peace with Finn. I’ve even reached an understanding with Stephanie.” She shakes her head against Rachel’s chest. “Inside, I feel _overwhelmed_ by all this goodness. By everything good that’s happened to me since I came out. I mean, for so many kids, coming out _is_ the nightmare. For me, it’s been like waking up.”

“Yeah,” Rachel smiles, and it’s genuine this time. She really is happy for Quinn, and she has to admit, her own coming out had been rife with some angst, but so far, it’s been relatively painless. She does know that so far, she’s glad that she’s done it, and only hopes that more pieces of her coming out process with bring good.

“It’s not like I’m not still scared,” Quinn confesses, “There are scary things about coming out, because you’re never really finished coming out, and I’m afraid of the times when it might be bad. I’m afraid, still, of us breaking each others’ hearts, because I realize it’s a thing that can happen. But mostly…I’m just _relieved_ to be out.”

Rachel nods, and wonders if, one day, she’ll be more relieved to be with a woman than scared some people might find out.

“And you’re incredible. What you did for me today…the way you faced Shelby so that I could see Beth…just, thank you, so much. So I guess what I’m trying to say is…I take back what I said before. Maybe I’m still riding some kind of high, having so many things go my way right now, but…if I had a choice, I’d choose this. I’d choose us. I’d choose to be gay, because right now, being gay is the best things in my life, because it’s brought me you, and so much more.”

Rachel’s heart absolutely melts, and just like that, her angst is abruptly gone, as she feels the words sink into her. As she feels the feelings they both share grow in the air around them like a static charge. “I’d choose you, too,” she murmurs, knowing that, in spite of her fears, it is true. She’s _always_ chosen Quinn, in one way or another.

Quinn raises her head off Rachel’s shoulder and is peering into her eyes. Rachel smiles at her slowly, and Quinn leans forward to connect their lips.

The kiss seems to awaken Rachel’s body, like a jolt of adrenaline. She’s aware of the way her heartbeat gets stronger, of the way her limbs wake up from their relaxed state, and of the way her mouth moves with Quinn’s, purposefully. Quinn shifts her body, moving it to cover Rachel’s a little more, and changing the angle of the kiss so that she’s more in control. Rachel lets her control the kiss for a little while, before lifting a hand to grasp the hair on the back of her head to tilt her head a different way, taking control of the kiss herself. In response, Quinn straddles her hips.

It’s not messy, yet. It’s slow and full of feelings. Rachel feels like her heart might burst, not the powerful beats of her body when it’s charged with lust, but the steady beats inside her body when she feels like she’s truly connected to another person. The steady beats of scary words that sometimes exist in her head but that can’t yet be spoken.

They continue kissing, their bodies heating up, playfully wresting control from each other for several minutes, until they’re both kneading at breasts over clothes, and Rachel is running her hands down Quinn’s back to grab at her ass. Quinn pulls away to regard Rachel with heavy-lidded, darkened eyes, “Maybe you should take off your dress,” she murmurs.

“Only if you do,” Rachel smirks.

Quinn seems to hesitate for a second, but then she, too, is smirking, and stands up off the bed. Rachel half rises, watching, her body fully pounding with emotion. She hasn’t forgotten the way she was feeling earlier, she hasn’t forgotten her angst and her concerns, but Quinn thanking her, and Quinn letting her know just how special she is…most of those concerns have been overridden by the strong _feelings_ for Quinn that feel like they flood her chest, and the burn of arousal now coursing through her veins.

Quinn stands, then turns around and reaches around her body to begin pulling the zipper down. It looks awkward, and Rachel wants to get up and help, but Quinn glances over her shoulder in a way that tells Rachel to stay where she is, and manages, with some awkward reaching, to pull the dress’s zipper down to the middle of her back.

She glances over her shoulder at Rachel again, expression both vulnerable and mischievous, and then lets the dress fall to pool at her feet.

Rachel stares at her back, at the dip over her spine, at the bones and muscles of her shoulders, at the way her hips flare dramatically. She stares at Quinn’s light blue boy shorts over her voluptuous rear, riding up a little on her strong thighs. She stares at the strap of Quinn’s matching blue bra and wonders vaguely if her underclothes always match, the way Rachel’s so often do. Stares at the pale flesh, searching for scars since covered by healing and surgery, searching for an ironic tattoo long since removed. How strange that Quinn’s flesh has left high school behind, when the rest of both of them still hold on just a little.

Quinn turns around, looking uncertain now, her arms simply hanging to her sides and if she’s not sure what to do with them, as if she’s resisting the urge to cross them over her body. Rachel just stares, just appreciates the way Quinn’s body looks. Her stomach and hipbones and the hint of abs. The strong-looking arms and hands and thighs and calves.

Seeming embarrassed by the scrutiny, Quinn gestures to Rachel. “Your turn,” she murmurs.

Rachel takes a deep breath and then scoots to the edge of the bed. She lifts the skirt up and then wrestles the rest of the dress up and over her head and lets it fall to the floor next to Quinn’s.

She feels Quinn’s eyes on her, with the same intensity she’s sure her own had. She watches as they dart, and Rachel feels oddly self-conscious because she’s sitting, so her stomach and legs are certainly not as flattering as Quinn’s were, so she stands in front of her and, chuckling a little, gives a little slow spin.

Quinn isn’t chuckling, though. She’s enjoying everything, that’s clear. The mood in the room becomes heavy with passion again almost immediately, and Rachel feels her breath hitch in her throat a little as she watches Quinn’s eyes.

Quinn moves forward then, slowly, and wraps her arms around Rachel, and then leans down to kiss her. Rachel arches up and kisses back, and these kisses are faster, messier, wilder. Quinn gently coaxes her to sit back on the bed and then straddles her lap. Her fingers are playing with the bra clasps until Rachel murmurs assent, and then Quinn unhooks the bra, helps Rachel slide her arms out of the straps, and drops it on the floor.

For several moments, Quinn is just kissing her, the same as she was before, her hands smoothing over the bare skin of Rachel’s back. She’s soon coaxing Rachel to lie down and only then does she actually place her hand, slowly and almost reverently, on one of Rachel’s bare breasts.

Rachel allows Quinn’s mouth and hands to worship her breasts for what feels like a long time. And, well, worship is the only word she can think of to describe the specific attention to passion Quinn puts into the acts. Rachel feels like her body is aflame with lust, her mind exploding with powerful feelings. But soon she’s drawing Quinn to her, pressing their mouths together, and reaching around Quinn’s body to remove her bra.

There’s a moment of hesitation, the moment that Quinn’s bra falls to the floor beside the bed. They’re facing each other, both in just their panties, and it’s scarily intimate. Quinn’s eyes are searching her face, clearly excited, but also worried that they’re going to far, moving too fast. All Rachel knows is that this is much more arousing than any other intimate experience she’s had, and she’s never been more sure that her feelings for Quinn go far beyond friendship.

She meets Quinn’s eyes and, seeking to reassure her, tells her lowly, “Do you have any idea how often I’ve touched myself thinking about you?”

Quinn looks taken aback for a moment, and then her gaze turns inward, and Rachel can see her throat working. “Yeah?” she whispers raspily.

“Yes,” Rachel confesses. “Even the other week, before your break ended, the only reason I went to the shower was to touch myself. I just… _had_ to. I’ve never wanted something so badly yet known so well that I wasn’t ready for it.” She thinks about the times she contemplated sex before, with Jesse, with Finn. Even though the idea excited her both times, and she had enjoyed sex with Finn, for what it was, these contemplations awakened much more apprehension than anticipation. Partly, she’s sure, because she’s always been very aware of the risks carried by penetrative sex with men, both physical and emotional; her fathers had ensured that her sex education was more than adequate. Sex with women didn’t have all the same cultural baggage, although it was still an extremely emotionally charged prospect. Hence her hesitation. That, and her knowledge that it was _too soon_. They were so young, they were still learning about each other. They were still learning to comprehend their desires to touch other actual women intimately—very different, Rachel now knows, than any fantasy.

Quinn watches her for a moment, then glances away, “I know exactly how you feel. I…enjoyed my shower, too.”

Rachel’s body feels like it’s heating up all over again, and she exhales in a rush of hot breath. “Oh, wow,” she murmurs. Quinn’s still looking away, her face twisted a little in embarrassment. Rachel touches her chin gently and kisses her. “Don’t. That’s _so_ sexy.”

“It feels silly to talk about,” Quinn mutters, still not meeting Rachel’s eyes.

“Why? It’s perfectly natural that we do this.”

Quinn shakes her head awkwardly, but not to negate Rachel’s words. “I’m…new at it. Still getting used to it being a normal thing, I guess. I still have to fight the shame, a little.”

Rachel smiles sadly. “Oh, Quinn,” she murmurs, “Think of it as making love to yourself. There can’t be anything wrong with that.”

Quinn snorts and shakes her head, “That’s a hard thing to do, when I’ve only so recently started learning _how_ to love myself, too.”

She knows her expression is still sad. She thinks about Quinn telling her awkwardly that she unwillingly watched Stephanie masturbate at the beginning of the year, and how shaken she was by the experience. So she draws Quinn to her and kisses her.

They’re kissing for awhile, hands and mouths all over each others’ upper bodies. Rachel thinks vaguely to the way they both had been so reluctant to allow boys to touch them here. Maybe it’s because they’re a little older, a little more secure, that they’ve moved this far already, and their bodies—at least Rachel’s—want them to go further. Several minutes of topless kisses and breast exploration and Rachel’s clit feels like a heart all on its own. “Have you ever thought about me touching myself?” she asks abruptly, thinking, now, that she’ll certainly have to tonight.

Quinn flushes at these words, which is answer enough, but a tiny nod confirms it.

“What if I…showed you?”

Quinn’s mouth parts a little, and her eyes are huge. “What, tonight?” she asks, her voice a forced casual like, oh, let me check my schedule.

Rachel just nods emphatically, “I’m going to have to touch myself tonight. I could…show you…a little bit anyway.”

“Oh…oh my God,” Quinn murmurs, “I…I don’t even know…what…”

“I don’t think I’m ready to remove these,” Rachel bites her lip as she gestures to her panties, “But…I could leave them on…show you everything else.”

Quinn stares at her with hungry eyes, and clears her throat softly, “If you do…I’m sure I will end up doing the same.”

The pulse between Rachel’s legs quickens. “I…that would be…yes.” She looks at Quinn, studies her face, tries to clear her own lust clouded thoughts. “I know this is…this is kind of big. We’re kind of advancing the sexual aspect of our relationship through leaps and bounds. If this is too much…”

Quinn hesitates, too, and appears to really think about it. She nods to herself, “I think…I think I’m ready for this. There are things I know I’m not ready for because I’m not comfortable fantasizing about them yet. But you touching yourself…I’ve thought about that a lot.” She bites her lip a little. “I’m still…inexperienced touching myself. I feel so crazy right now that I _want_ to, but…I don’t know. I might not…finish.”

“That’s okay,” Rachel assures, “I just want you to be comfortable. If any of this becomes uncomfortable, we can stop, okay?”

Quinn shivers a little, “I don’t think I’ll be stopping you. I don’t think I can let you finish yourself off in the shower if I know I could watch you do it. I’m just worried about like…me.”

“Lie down next to me,” Rachel instructs, pulling Quinn toward her. Quinn lies down on her left, and there’s barely room for them both, shoulder to shoulder, on the little twin bed. Rachel turns her head to kiss Quinn, and look into her eyes. “I want to watch your face most of all,” Rachel murmurs, moving her head away from Quinn’s enough so that she can focus on her. “And your hand, of course. This way…we can both see a lot, but not…not _too_ much.”

Quinn’s eyes are racing up and down Rachel’s body, and Rachel takes a deep breath and moves her hand to rest on her hip. Quinn is watching it with fervent fascination. Rachel takes another giddy breath and slides her hand just under the elastic of her panties and moves her hand down.

“OhmyGod,” Quinn says, rushed, all one word.

“I’m so…” Rachel trails off, knowing they both know what she wants to say, but not quite able to say it.

“Fuck,” Quinn says, uncharacteristically coarse, as Rachel closes her eyes and begins to stroke herself, spreading moisture. She hears movement from Quinn, feels the arm next to her shift, and opens her eyes to see that Quinn’s hand is in her own panties, not yet moving, but there.

Rachel moans in response to the sight, and her eyes move back to Quinn’s face. Quinn is biting her lip, her face eager and uncertain all at once, and Rachel feels her hand begin to move more purposefully.

She works up a practiced rhythm, but purposefully keeps it slow. As much as Quinn thinks she might not come, Rachel wants to give her time to get off. She knows she could probably make herself come in only a few minutes, the way she’s feeling right now. But she holds back. She slows her hand, she turns to look at Quinn.

Quinn’s eyes are closed, and she’s still biting her lip a little. Her hand is moving, a little, slowly, uncertainly. When Rachel turns her head, Quinn opens her eyes and looks at her. She looks worried and excited all at once.

“You look so good,” Rachel murmurs.

Quinn seems to stop breathing and swallows. “So do you,” she finally murmurs back.

“How do you feel?” Rachel asks, her hand moving more quickly, unconsciously.

Quinn doesn’t say anything for a long while, and Rachel watches the way her hand moves, a bit more purposefully. Finally, she murmurs. “Soft. Wet.”

“Oh,” Rachel murmurs.

For several long minutes, they’re both just breathing together, hands working. Sometimes their eyes are closed, sometimes they’re looking at each other, but they aren’t saying much.

And then, Quinn is abruptly arching, gasping, holding her breath to keep quiet. Rachel watches hungrily, so engrossed that her hand has actually stopped moving. It’s beautiful. It’s incredible. It’s Quinn Fabray with her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth hanging open, her hand struggling to keep up with her bucking hips, her tightening thighs.

Quinn lays back, relaxing, her eyes still closed, and Rachel’s hand starts moving again. “That was…” she gasps, “Oh, God. Can I…touch?”

Quinn eyes open, wary, “What? Not…not inside.”

“No,” Rachel pants, her body coiling, “No, just…outside. Your panties.”

“…Okay,” Quinn agrees, and Rachel reaches her hand over to place her palm over the outside of Quinn’s panties.

When she feels how hot and wet the area is, her orgasm rushes into her body, and she’s moaning, thrashing, struggling to keep up, her hand still staying on Quinn, feeling the hot warmth through the underpants. Just the thought of it seems to make her come harder.

When she finally relaxes, Quinn is staring at her, eyes bright and anxious. Rachel moves both her hands slowly, wiping her wet fingers on her panties, and gathers her thoughts. “Wow,” is all she can say.

Quinn nods fervently, “Yeah. Wow.”

“That was…exactly what I needed.” Quinn nods, and Rachel asks, “Was it okay? What I did at the end?”

Quinn seems to hesitate for a moment. “I was uncertain, but…yeah. It was…I liked that you came while touching me, sort of.”

“Yeah,” Rachel smiles, “I just…I needed to feel you right then.”

Quinn says nothing, but curls up and puts her head back on Rachel’s shoulder. Rachel strokes her hair again. Before too long, they drift off to sleep that way.

 

_They would protest the cross around their necks_

 

Quinn doesn’t want to, but she heads back to New Haven on Sunday, the morning after she and Rachel…get off together. It had been exhilarating and terrifying, but Quinn has to admit, satisfying. It’s still weird and huge and overwhelming, but she has no regrets.

There’s something about Rachel’s frank treatment of sexuality that used to put Quinn on edge, but now puts her at ease. A week ago, Quinn is sure that she’d never have been able to imagine touching herself in front of Rachel, but it happened. It happened because of a mixture of wild hormones and Rachel just being Rachel.

But one reason she needs to head back is because it’s the last week of actual classes, and she has some final papers to write. Her Feminism seminar essay is the one she’s kind of looking forward to the least, but it’s due early in the week, so she tackles it first.

The main reason she isn’t looking forward to it is because it’s a personal essay. It’s hard for her to put her past and personal convictions out there, and this assignment asks a lot: “Write an essay chronicling your approach to feminism throughout your life (even if, after this class, you still don’t identify as feminist).” This is the kind of question Quinn doesn’t want to answer. Questions about her past, about her beliefs, about her personal life.

But she should. Because opening up to people has actually been beneficial recently in her life.

She thinks, again, about the parts of her relationship with Rachel that still scare her. No longer that Rachel can’t really love her; the longer the relationship goes on, and the more time they talk and spend time together, and even, strangely, the closer they get physically, the more sure she is about Rachel’s feelings. That last part is a surprise. She’d expected to feel more scared by Rachel’s physical desire for her; after all, Rachel’s physical and sexual attraction has been the surest thing about this relationship.

No, it’s other things now. It’s their future, their longevity. What scares her now, and she doesn’t want to tell Rachel this, that she might hold Rachel back.

Rachel has always wanted her leading man. Her dreams never involved a woman who was more comfortable swaying in the background. And her dreams aren’t limited to the relatively open culture of Broadway. Rachel wants the EGOT. Rachel wants to work in the somewhat terrifying culture of Hollywood.

Quinn doesn’t want to be the thing that keeps Rachel from her dreams. Not when there are leading men out there Rachel could want.

But at the same time, she’s selfish. And even all these fears can’t tear her away from needing to do whatever she can possibly do when her _own_ dream of loving Rachel could come true.

But aside from this dark secret, Quinn supposes there is little about her life that she needs to keep totally secret in an essay one person will read. She can be honest in this essay.

It reminds her, weirdly, about the essay she wrote to get into Yale, in which she talked about the hard parts of her teenage years, and how she struggled through and kept on Honor Roll because she knew she wanted a great future. It’s not as though Yale _doesn’t_ already know some of her dark secrets. This is the same thing: displaying her pain and embarrassment to get good results from someone else’s empathy.

It’s hard not to see it that way, anyway.

And to her surprise, once she sits down to actually write it, the words spill out, and she writes about a lot—her conservative attitudes in early high school, parroted from her father and, less so, from her mother. The way it forced her to be closeted, to look at sex negatively, to scrutinize her own body and desire to try to be “normal” and “good.” And how these attitudes forced her to become so desperate to feel normal that she slept with Puck, without the knowledge or control of responsible birth control, and spiraled her life out of control.

She writes about getting kicked out of the house and wallowing in despair without thinking much about how maybe her father’s views got her into such a situation. About how Carole Hudson had sparked the idea in her mind when she had told Quinn that she was really proud of Finn for taking responsibility for what happened, because this shouldn’t be something Quinn should have to face alone and in shame. Quinn was angry at first, because she had been kicked out and sure as hell felt like she was bearing the brunt of everything, with the way her body was changing, and guilty, because it _wasn’t_ his, but Finn’s support did help, and she had to admit he could have gotten away with doing nothing for her. Also watching Carole, a single woman doing her best to raise her boy without a man in her life, made Quinn question whether the father/mother household she came from and had been kicked out of was truly best. Because the bond between Finn and his mother was palpable and strong, and watching them interact with respect on a daily basis was new. This wasn’t a system of parental dominance—though Carole certainly had more influence over Finn—they were a team.

She writes about how she started looking into it. How she started getting angry, when she learned about the ways women were oppressed, paid less, treated as property throughout history, despite all the pain and responsibility of childbirth they were forced to have. And about how when she lived with Mercedes, she started to think more about race, started to get angry about racism and realizing it wasn’t dead. She started to feel guilty, about the way she had treated Rachel, the slurs she threw at her, the way she had been repulsed by her because her fathers were gay. She started to let go of her attitudes, quietly, still unable to bring herself to be _nice_ to the girl she had such conflicting feelings about. But she kept her closet, locked away, too afraid to see what was inside it. Yet she was changing. She was discovering. And when her mom took her back, and her father’s secret affair was revealed, she’d felt vindicated. He _hadn’t_ been right about anything after all.

She writes about Santana and Brittany, and how she knew they had feelings for each other, and it terrified her. She writes about her mother taking her back, and trying to learn to trust each other again, and how odd it was to watch her mother go to work, and how that made her feel. She writes about the pain of giving up Beth, and the realization that it was most important to give her a good life, and her realization that although abortion was not a choice she could make, she could understand why some women would need to. She writes about watching Rachel and Finn try to get married while so young, and all the reasons she didn’t want it to happen. She writes about her suspicions that the ways she was feeling were “wrong,” the slow realization that she is gay, the slow process of coming out. She writes about wrestling with her faith, her realizations that there was no evidence that God would have anything but love for queer people. She writes about her anger at the men in her life, and how she had to wrestle with her feelings, that she could love the men in her life, but not _love_ them. How being at Yale, away from where she grew up, was helping her realize her potential, and helping her become a better, smarter person.

She even writes about therapy, and how having the chance to talk openly about her life has helped her learn to love herself again. How she’s still working on that part.

She writes about Rachel. About how learning how to express her feelings for Rachel were helping her connect with herself, and continue to learn to love herself. How being with Rachel was strange and scary and new and wonderful and convincing Quinn more every day that being a woman—being a woman _with_ a woman—was wonderful.

She finishes the essay in record time. She’s sure it’s not the most coherent piece, but it’s true, and scary. She just puts it away and doesn’t look at it, even though her instincts tell her to proofread it, at least. But she can’t. It’s out there, and she won’t let herself second-guess her decision to tell all.

She thinks, then, that she should probably let one other person read this: her therapist.

And someday, maybe, Rachel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from “Feelin’ Good” made famous by Nina Simone, Jonsi, “Do Good,” Radiohead, “Street Spirit (Fade Out),” Neutral Milk Hotel, “Two Headed Boy,” and Iron & Wine “Carousel.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Malcolm: Puck's coworker, unfriendly, fellow cook at the diner, his age, high school dropout, also a drug dealer  
> Joey: Night dishwasher, friend of Malcolm, also a drug dealer  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, things were weird, but improving, both seeing therapists  
> Angela: (alluded to) Santana's fuckbuddy, met through work


	41. I'd see the people smile when I would sing for them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I waited until I finished the story to post the last few chapters. Expect the last few chapters to update regularly.

_I’d see the people smile when I would sing for them_

 

Seeing Quinn feeling so free about being out weighs on Rachel, a little.

It’s unsettling, that she’s much more nervous to come out than Quinn is at this point. She’s spent her entire life “out,” in a way, about being the child of gay parents. She’s always known how important this kind of struggle for acceptance can be, and always thought she understood. Now, she sees she has no idea.

But still. For Quinn’s sake, she wants to try.

She’s out to her parents and most of her friends, and that is a good start. But it doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t feel like the extent that Quinn has come out, for some reason.

It’s on her mind, even if she doesn’t really know what to do about it.

She had been more surprised than she should have been when she discovered Gretchen and Jeremy are in the original student musical with her. They can both sing, too, and it really shouldn’t surprise her. It shouldn’t be jarring. They’re talented people.

But being face to face with Jeremy again, after everything that happened since they stopped seeing one another daily after the play finished its run, just makes Rachel want to wince when she looks him in the face. Not out of regret, or shame. Just out of embarrassment, for not knowing what she wanted, for thinking that she might want him. She sees him now, and sure, he’s sweet, he’s cute, he’s totally her type, but…the spark hadn’t been there, even though she had wanted it badly.

But even though they don’t interact much, they’re in the same show together. Rachel knows she can be professional, and for Jeremy, this seems to come easily. He’s still the same sweet guy to her, just with a cordial air.

Gretchen, however, almost seems warmer. She’s happy enough to see Rachel, anyway. They’ve had a lot of rehearsals every night, as they’ve really only had about a month to put this show together, and after a few weeks, Gretchen pulls her aside while they’re backstage.

“The director asked me to speak with you,” she tells Rachel quietly, “He…isn’t sure you’re quite what he’s looking for.”

Rachel’s eyes widen, “Am I being cut?”

“No,” Gretchen shakes her head, “Partly because I vouched for you. I saw you in _Theseus Redux_ , er, _Theo and the Science Labyrinth_. And…I don’t know. You were much stronger in that role.”

Rachel isn’t really sure what to say. “What am I doing wrong?”

Gretchen shrugs, “Not really tapping into the character, I suppose. You’re acting a lot like your character in _Theseus_ , that same sort of melodrama. Tell me, what drives your character?”

Truth be told, Rachel knows almost nothing about her character. This director hasn’t really told her anything concrete, so there’s just what Rachel has drawn from the script, and as it’s an original work, she doesn’t have anyone else’s performance to base hers on. So she just shrugs and tells Gretchen she’s just playing the character like any other.

“Yeah,” Gretchen says slowly, “That’s the problem.”

Through talking, Rachel comes to realize that she views most of the roles she’s interested in playing as very similar roles, and that watching these roles and idolizing these roles growing up has given her an odd sense of melodrama in her acting. She’s always a diva, in other words. But Gretchen talks to her, runs lines with her, and Rachel starts to see something a little more subtle in her character.

It’s weird to think that what made her so good at her last character might actually be a flaw in her acting. It’s hard to get used to the idea that delivering her lines without a dramatic flair might be the _right_ way for this character.

During a Tech Week rehearsal, just after the weekend that she and Quinn got off together, Gretchen works with her a little again, Rachel discovers an opportunity.

“This musical is so short, and honestly feels so thrown together because this director waited so long to get everything set up, that I’m not sure who I’m even going to ask to come see me,” Gretchen admits one afternoon. “Which is a shame, because it is a good concept, and we have strong actors.”

“Yeah,” Rachel agrees, because it’s this weekend and it’s starting to feel really rushed. “I mean, I know my…Quinn will come see it, but probably no one else.”

“Your Quinn?” Gretchen smiles. She certainly catches the awkwardness of Rachel’s language.

“Yeah,” Rachel nods, then eyes Gretchen uncertainly, “Can I trust you?”

Gretchen tilts her head, “I don’t know. That’s for you to decide.”

Rachel scrutinizes her, and realizes she’s right. And she decides that she probably does. “I’m struggling with something and I’m not sure how to deal with it and plan my future at the same time.”

“Like what?” Gretchen asks.

Rachel is a little thrown by how direct she is, but she answers easily, “I’m struggling with being bisexual and wanting to be successful in an industry that’s so image-conscious. The Quinn I mentioned…my girlfriend…this is a new discovery, and it’s hard.”

Gretchen nods, completely unsurprised, and looks thoughtful, “Well, if it helps, I’m feeling something of the same.”

“Oh?” Rachel is very interested now.

“Remember when I told you I was…picky?” Rachel nods, and Gretchen grimaces. “That’s not exactly the best word for me, I just didn’t know what else to say at the time. But I’ve learned some things since then, and part of what I’ve learned is that I’m a little bit asexual.”

“Really?” Rachel asks. It’s something she doesn’t know how to begin to conceptualize. It’s easy enough to see what the word means, but it’s not something she’s ever put any thought into.

“I mean, there’s a better word, but not a lot of people know it. I’m demisexual.” At Rachel’s blank expression, she explains, “That means I don’t really get attracted to people until there’s a deep connection, and for me, this mostly happens with guys. So I mean, for a long time, I just thought I was some kind of cold bitch because I so rarely felt attracted to someone, and because I felt that way, I acted that way a lot more. But soon I started realizing that the people I did end up having feelings for were often my friends, because we had a good emotional connection. And I’d get frustrated with myself for blurring those lines between friendship and love.”

Rachel isn’t sure what to say, so she just says, “I’ve never heard of this. But I relate to it, a little.” There were _reasons_ Rachel had decided she really had to have feelings for the people she slept with. It was hard to, otherwise, as she learned with Jeremy.

“Lots of people relate a little. The kind of people who don’t fall in love until they really know someone. But I’m talking about more than just falling in love, although, for me, romantic feelings develop after I know someone well, too. I’m talking about being attracted sexually, too. Most people can think of others they’re sexually attracted to that they haven’t even had a conversation with. That’s hard for me. That’s not how my sexuality works.”

And Rachel has to admit that’s true. She’s wary of sleeping with people she doesn’t know well because she’s more vulnerable that way. So it’s not really a matter of needing _feelings_ for the people she sleeps with, it’s a matter of being able to trust them. Which, she reasons, is certainly not necessarily related to romantic feeling. If she thinks about it, she can imagine enjoying sex with Santana, and they certainly don’t have a romantic connection. But they’re friends, who have helped each other out. Rachel would trust her with her feelings and her body if something happened. Not that it would, because being able to admit that Santana is sexually appealing is _so_ far from wanting to actually act on any of it. “Okay,” she admits, “That isn’t how things work for me.” It certainly isn’t how things work with her and women, thus far. She’s been more acutely aware of her sexual attraction to them before being aware of her capacity to love them (she’s on her way to loving Quinn, for sure, and it’s not even all that scary or profound to realize this. Just natural).

“I didn’t think so, after what happened with Jeremy. It was awkward, I heard, but not in a way that sounded like my experience.”

And Rachel and men…that was a vulnerability thing, too. Rachel had always been more afraid of men’s ability to hurt her physically and sexually, and, without realizing it until recently, women’s ability to hurt her emotionally. She avoided sex with guys she didn’t love not because she didn’t want it before then, but because she wanted to be safe.

“So, okay. I get that. And you’re worried about how it will affect your professional life?”

Gretchen gives her a hard look. “A bit. It might not sound as scary to you as having to tell people you’re bisexual. But it does make casual dating harder, and if I’m a professional in the theater, how much time do I have to make deep relationships? Besides, I said mostly guys. That’s a clue that I’ve fallen for women I’m close to as well. So you might follow your career with a girlfriend or a boyfriend. I might have either of those, too, but most likely I’ll be alone.” Rachel frowns, and Gretchen continues, “Not because I’m not worthy of a relationship, or whatever you’re thinking, but because, logistically, it’s more rare for me to want one with a specific person, especially if I choose to focus on my career first. I can’t speak for other demisexuals, but that’s what it’s like for me.”

Rachel is quiet for a moment, then says, “And are you afraid people will think it’s weird, if you’re never romantically connected to anyone?”

“Yeah,” Gretchen nods, “And that leads to way more showmances than I’m willing to tolerate. It’s fine to act like I’m in love onstage. Offstage, that gets too exhausting for me.”

Rachel feels a bit of despair, “So what can I do? What _should_ I do about all this? If I stay closeted any time I have a girlfriend, it’ll be like you, and they’ll think I’m weird for not dating…”

“Well,” Gretchen starts slowly, “What I can do is point you in the direction of some people who won’t care about that sort of thing.”

Rachel eyes her curiously, “What do you mean?”

She studies her nails for a moment, as if suddenly shy. “I’m saying, my uncle is an agent here in the city. He is happy to work with discretion with anyone who is queer and doesn’t want to be completely open, and happy to help any of his people come out. He can work around directors who would care about that sort of thing, and point you toward ones that don’t. I’ll be working with him, too, but I knew that for a long time. Negotiating with him how to deal with my sexuality is stressful because it’s unfamiliar to him, but I know we’ll work something out. I’d be happy to put in a good word for you.”

“Really? You’d…do that?”

“Of course,” Gretchen says easily, “I told you, you’re very talented. Even if right now I’m having to help you find your way around this role, that’s not because you’re untalented, it’s because you’re still a freshman. You still have more to learn. But there’s a lot of potential in you. Your voice is incredible. We just need to get your acting to that level.” She shrugs, “Broadway is basically my family’s business. I know potential when I see it.”

“Wow. I…wow.”

“Yeah. So, don’t be ashamed. The culture is changing all the time around us. And I can find you someone who will defend you, even if you’re not fully out to directors or anyone else. But at least you’ll have an ally in the business. He’s got connections in California, too. People who can help you keep your privacy, if that’s what you want to do.”

“That’s incredible. Thank you, Gretchen.”

“It’s not problem. I have a good feeling about you.”

“So…” Rachel asks quietly, “How secret do you think I should keep this?”

Gretchen shrugs, “It’s up to you. I feel like NYADA is a safe place to be out. And I can get you a meeting with my uncle, he’ll be able to advise you more about the Broadway crowd. Trust your gut, I guess is all I can say.”

That makes sense, Rachel thinks. It told her to trust Gretchen, and it was right.

Gretchen smiles, seeming more comfortable and happy than Rachel has ever seen her before. “I know I’m going to see you out on the Broadway stage someday, and I’m hoping we’ll get to work together out there. I know I’m graduating, but I’ll be in touch. I’ll always pass along advice, if you need it.”

“Definitely!” Rachel agrees.

It’s going to happen for her, she thinks. She met some of Jesse’s connections the other night, and even if she’s not sure she made the best impression (Jesse had been a little thrown off because she’d told him she was seeing Quinn, which had made them both a little awkward), she’s on their radar. If she can swallow her discomfort, she might gain some connections through Shelby. Gretchen knows people who know people, Gretchen has found her a possible good agent.

It’s going to happen for her.

 

_In love I’m just an animal_

 

He’s been fielding emails from Mercedes for a few weeks now, as she searches for a new apartment for them. For her, Puck and him.

The decision to invite Puck to live with them had been a joint decision. As much as they love each other, Sam and Mercedes have different interests beyond music and God, so Sam was a little worried about coming there not knowing anyone. He had wanted Puck there because he needed a friend, especially—and he doesn’t want to think about this—if things with Mercedes end up not working out if they start living together. And Puck, the guy who had talked a lot about California for the past year or so, seemed the perfect friend to invite along.

For Mercedes, it had been because she, too, wants Sam to have a friend there. But she had also wants someone there because she isn’t quite ready for the idea of just her and Sam having a place together. She’s more comfortable with the idea of roommates, one of whom was her boyfriend, than an arrangement where she lived solely with her boyfriend. Another roommate would help them be responsible, learn to live together. And help them keep their heads and remember how young they actually are, how they’re not ready for anything too serious.

But, it’s good. In general, Sam is really excited about moving there. When Mercedes came to visit him for Easter, they talked about what had happened with her and the guy who had tried to take things further than she was ready for. Sam had felt a little hurt and betrayed by it, but ultimately realized it hadn’t happened on purpose, and didn’t blame Mercedes. They had agreed to keep the relationship closed for a little bit longer, which made it a little less exciting, for sure, but safer.

And, he had elected not to touch Mercedes the way the guy had, because when it came down to it, she still wasn’t ready, and her offer to let Sam touch her there had been an apology more than consent. The last thing Sam wants is to make her uncomfortable. Easter involved a lot of cuddling and kissing between them, but not much beyond that.

They’re on videochat tonight, and Mercedes is showing him pictures of a place that seems really promising and that she thinks she’s going to jump on. Sam and Puck have both already agreed to send her whatever money she needs for a deposit on an apartment, and she’s pretty sure she’s going to try and nail this one down tomorrow. Sam thinks it looks great. It’s pretty simple and small, living room and kitchen connected, two bedrooms, one bathroom. It’ll be small, but comfortable, he thinks. It has a driveway, too, which is good, because from what Sam understands, they’ll need cars to really get around the city.

So he grins and gives his agreement, and, relieved, Mercedes settles back against the pillows on her bed and smiles at him, “I’m really excited about this. You’re going to be with me so soon!”

“Me too,” Sam grins. He looks at her, then, and thinks about it. “What’s going to happen when I get there?”

She smirks seductively, “Well. First I’ll probably kiss you, and run my fingers through your hair. Then I’ll probably take your shirt off.”

Sam smirks right back, “Hehe. Okay. But wait. Before we get to that?”

“Before that,” Mercedes says, keeping the same sexy edge to her voice, “I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

Sam laughs this time, “Actually, Puck and I are probably driving.”

“Oh, yeah. That could work too,” Mercedes admits.

Sam gazes at her fondly, “But as much as I like thinking about what we might do when I get there, that’s not what I’m asking.”

“No?” Mercedes asks, frowning, “I mean, I’ll have the house set up as best I can before you get there, if that’s what you mean.”

“No. I mean with us.”

“Us?”

“Yeah,” Sam is uncertain, “I mean, I know we closed our relationship. I guess I’m wondering if it’s going to…stay closed.”

Mercedes looks worried. “Well, I mean…I thought that was kind of the agreement. That this was a way for us to have fun and keep each other entertained while we were apart.”

“And we’d just be us when we’re together?”

“That’s what I thought…is that what you thought?”

Sam thinks about it, “I think I did, but…I mean, I think the fact that we’ve probably closed the relationship until I get there, and that this means I may never get to hear about you with other guys again…I think I’m going to miss that. It was over so quickly, and I’m not sure I was ready for it to be.”

Mercedes nods slowly, “I mean, for me…I think when you’re there, I’m not going to want to see other guys so much. I was happy to have the opportunity to try things with other guys, learn from it, see what other guys are like, and it was so great because you were so into it. But…I’m not sure I’ll want to, now.”

Sam feels sick, and feels stupid for feeling that way. He mutters, “So we’ll probably just be closed?”

“I don’t know, Sam,” Mercedes admits, “I just wasn’t prepared for this possibility. I think, we should get you here, see how things go. If it’s something you still want or need…I doubt I’ll be able to deny you, when it gets you so worked up. But I want to try just us for a little while, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam agrees. And maybe it’ll be okay, with just them. Maybe it’ll be easier. They can always talk about the guys she saw before. He can always play back those little tapes in his head. “I am definitely willing to try it.”

“We’ll keep communication open,” Mercedes promises.

“Definitely,” Sam agrees. “I don’t want you to think that I’m not going to be so happy to be there with you. I will. I am.”

“No, I understand,” Mercedes smiles, “I am, too.”

“I wish I could see you sooner.”

“Me, too. I wish I could come escort you to Prom!”

Sam snorts, because now that Mercedes is out of high school, Prom seems almost silly. But still, it was her Junior Prom that was really the beginning of this relationship for them, so there’s something special there. “Yeah. But it’s okay. I think I’m taking Merry, from Glee, just so she can go. Not romantic,” he laughs, “She’s gay, so…”

Mercedes smiles a bit, “That’s sweet of you.”

He shrugs, “It just gives her a chance to hang out with her friends one more time before they graduate, and since everyone else is already taking someone…”

“I get it. Go, have fun. Take pictures for me. Maybe we’ll chat afterwards,” she wiggles her eyebrows.

“I would love that,” he replies eagerly.

 

_I’ll never lose affection for people and things that went before_

 

Prom is going to be awesome.

She’s even more prepared with her campaign for Prom King this year. She was Homecoming King, and she’s pretty sure she can be Prom King, too. There are really no other good contenders. And her class, as a whole, seems to think the whole thing is stupid.

That’s how she’s won most of her other elections, she knows. Apathy. People vote for her for things like Class President and Homecoming King because they think it will be funny. No other reason.

But that’s fine. She hasn’t done much as Class President, honestly, except passing a referendum that all the water fountains in the school should have names, and threatening Figgins—along with Blaine—to agree to keep Unique safe. She has also issued a public statement to the school newspaper telling everyone how idiotic is was to bully people, especially transpeople, and, like a weird collective of teenage sheep, most people agreed with her. Somehow, just by being herself, she’d changed minds. Popularity is weird like that.

And she got to choose this year’s Prom theme. She had wanted to do gender bending, because she figured then she would be guaranteed to win Prom King, but the other kids on student council wore her down, and they finally agreed on Sailors from the Future. Which meant they could do awesome space decorations as well as pirate decorations. Brittany’s outfit for Prom is based off a traditional sailor’s uniform, but it’s made of silver fabric with a metallic sheen, and she’s wearing an eyepatch.

She’s taking Matt.

That’s the one part that’s weird about all this. When she thought about Prom earlier in the year, she was sure Santana would be here with her, escorting her. But now, that is not to be.

They’ve texted, a little bit. Santana has told her she misses her, but that’s about it. She’s not really ready to talk more. Brittany hasn’t mentioned Matt, of course, and she knows that taking him is a little public, so she tells everyone in Glee that they’re just friends. Which is true, they are just friends, but they’re friends who have been banging.

After the week of Matt’s Spring Break, Brittany decided she enjoyed sex with him a lot. That was one reason she drove down to see him during her own Spring Break—just for a day, really, just so they could have a little bit of sex. She didn’t want to distract him from school, she really just needed some sex. And it’s that need—the need they both have for some easy, no string attached sex, that brings Matt up here to go to Prom with her, so they can have fun as friends, and end Prom night with the bang, the way it _should_ end.

So. Matt is there, as her non-boyfriend, to be her date.

He’s dressed normally for Prom, not in costume, so before they leave, Brittany convinces him to put on an aluminum foil pirate’s hat. He just kind of laughs and does so, which is nice that he doesn’t just dismiss her for being weird. He’s like Santana that way.

Brittany drives them to Prom, and she’s so excited and relieved when they enter the gym. They’re early, because as Class President, it’s part of her responsibility to make sure everything is ready to go before other students get there. So Matt happily blends in with the background for a little while as Brittany and the rest of the student council, along with some teacher chaperones, make sure everything is ready to go, and Matt is standing beside her when they open the gym to students at six o’clock.

She’s mostly waiting for her friends to appear. She greets the cheerleaders that she knows, but the first of her friends she sees are Tina and Mike.

Mike sees Matt, and his eyes widen, and then the two old friends are hugging and laughing. Brittany looks at Tina and grins, and they go claim a table and get some punch.

Before long, Blaine shows up with Kurt, both dressed handsomely—no skirt for Kurt this year, Brittany notes with disappointment—and Sam arrives with Merry, looking awkward together, but Merry’s face brightens when she sees Brittany. And last to arrive is Artie, with Annette pushing his wheelchair for him until they join the table. Brittany greets Annette uncertainly; she really only knows her from the play that just finished last weekend, and if she’s honest, she thinks Annette was not that great as Stella. Still, _A Streetcar Named Desire_ was fun to watch, though obviously, Brittany is a lot more excited for the musical that goes on in a few more weeks—just before Nationals, in fact.

Regardless, it’s cool that everyone sort of has a date this year—even if Sam and Merry and she and Matt are here as friends. Kurt and Mike both seem really happy to be back for Prom, and Artie seems to glow every time he looks at Annette.

So they drink punch and laugh and eat snacks—moonpies, cupcakes shaped like flying saucers, cookies shaped like octopuses, astronaut ice cream; well, those are the things Brittany eats, anyway, she’s sure there were other options. And when the music officially starts, with “Spaceman” by Bif Naked, the dancing happens almost immediately.

She dances with Matt, which is fun because he’s a good dancer, he always was. But not just with Matt, and the same as he’s fine to wander off and dance with others, he’s not the least bit concerned about her doing the same thing. It’s simultaneously great and sad. She loves dancing with a bunch of people, but a part of her wishes Santana were here to be possessive and to keep her by her side all evening. She misses feeling like someone wants her so badly.

Still, though, she and Matt come back to each other many times throughout the night, and he always gives her a smile. It feels more like Sophomore year, because the music is loud, so Matt doesn’t try to talk much. He reminds her of the old Matt, Santana’s Matt, briefly.

And someone certainly spiked the punch, which is pretty great. She eyes Artie, who dances with a somewhat overly accommodating Annette, and he flashes her a smile that she’s sure is an admission of guilt. But it’s fine. She’s enjoying the spiked punch.

Honestly, the spiked punch gives her an idea. What else can she get away with?

She finds Matt on the dance floor and gracefully steals him from the girl he’s dancing with. She leans forward and murmurs, “Remember where the janitor’s closet near the gym is?”

He nods, eyebrows already arching.

“Meet me there by the time this song ends,” and she dances away from him.

He joins her before too long. She glances at the clock. They don’t have long.

“What do you want to—mmph,” his question is halted by a kiss.

“I’m going to get you off before anyone notices we’re gone.”

“Ohh kaaay, woah, okay,” Matt responds, as her fingers are already working on his belt.

She misses this, she realizes. She misses the clandestine meetings, the danger and the thrill. It hadn’t been all that fun at the time, it had been a matter of necessity, but now that she’s experienced such a long time in which she and Santana _didn’t_ have that kind of sex, well…she misses it. It’s stupid. But it’s also an idea she can’t get out of her head: if Santana were here with her at this prom, she’d have her head between Brittany’s legs in this closet right now.

But Matt isn’t Santana. And as good a friend with benefits as he is, he doesn’t try things like this. Still, he’s cooperating. But Brittany hadn’t expected him to turn down a blowjob.

When he’s hard, she takes him into her mouth, beginning the act in earnest, using her fist and mouth. She loves doing this. He groans, and his gaze keeps bouncing to the clock and to the door next time him. Brittany understands. She’s conscious of the time, too. He puts a palm gently on her head as Brittany moves it. She likes that about him, his gentleness, and his ability to know when to be gentle and when to be more rough. He is good at reading her.

And despite his anxiety about the time, she does manage to get him off before too much time has passed. She knew she could; she’s good at all the oral sex, and she’s proud of that fact. His little thrusts into her mouth are the telltale sign, and she lets him finish, swallows quickly. She glances at the clock. “We’d better get back out there.”

“Wait,” he touches her arm, “Don’t I get to touch you?”

She gives him a quick kiss on the lips; she likes that he doesn’t even flinch despite where her mouth just was, not like other guys. “Later. After Prom, we can do what _you_ want.”

He smiles, too drained by his orgasm to muster too much enthusiasm at her words (she’s sure there are things he’ll want to try, now). But he’s young enough, she knows, that he’ll be ready to go by the time Prom is over.

Wiping her mouth, feeling conspicuous, she gets out on the dance floor just before Principal Figgins begins to announce the winners of Prom King and Queen.

She hopes what she just did isn’t too obvious when she goes up to accept the crown for Prom King. It had really been that easy. Be herself, and run, and the crown was hers.

Tina is Prom Queen.

At first, Tina seems to feel awkward, as if she isn’t sure if it’s okay to dance together. But Brittany pulls her toward her and murmurs, “Don’t worry. We can be King and Queen for one dance.”

Tina moves closer to Brittany as they begin to spin slowly. “I just feel awkward about us since, you know.”

Brittany shrugs, “It was just making out. It’s cool. We both know it doesn’t need to happen again.”

Tina nods, and Brittany sees Mike out in the crowd. His brow is knit a little but he is smiling. Matt is glowing, eyes glassy from his recent orgasm, his shirt half-untucked still.

Brittany wishes that she and Santana could have made this happen last year. She adores Tina, as a friend. She likes Matt a lot, too. But she doesn’t love him.

She thinks, if circumstances were different, maybe she _could_ love Matt (or even Tina, if she weren’t straight). But they aren’t different. They’re far apart, she has no plans to go to WVU. She has plans to reconnect with Santana. And for her, that’s all that matters. It really is that easy. No strings attached with Matt, because she won’t let there even _be_ possible strings that might get tangled and caught.

Sex isn’t dating. She’s always known that.

Except for that one time that it was.

But she and Santana have always had a way of breaking all the rules.

 

_I could give you my apologies_

 

This is kind of the Prom he’s always dreamed of. He’s finally taking a girl he really likes, who seems to really like him. He’s spiked the punch bowl, in honor of Puck, without getting caught (probably because Coach Sylvester was not chaperoning, and no other teacher really seemed to care). And to top it off, Annette is taking him home, and there is the _hint_ that they might end the evening in a… _special_ way.

It’s kind of a weird space to be in, going on a Prom date, because just like last week he was her director in the school play. And it had been a struggle because…he wanted so badly to take her to Prom, that he’s sure he handled her with kid gloves. He _needed_ her to like him, and he hadn’t directed her all that well. Consequently, she was not the Stella he had hoped she’d be. It had become pretty clear early on that he had not cast her well. But it was fine. He let her believe she was pretty good, and tries not to think that it was possibly a bad idea to encourage her falsely.

His parents are likely to already be asleep. And he knows they can be discrete, and he knows that even if his parents overhear anything, they won’t interrupt him. It’s a weird unspoken agreement they have.

Annette pulls up to his house, and rushes over to get his wheelchair set for him to get into. He can get from the seat to the wheelchair, he knows. He just needs to be able to position the chair right, and get the right leverage out of Annette’s unfamiliar seat, and might need some help from Annette, but it’s hard to ask, especially since they’re on a date.

“Here, let me help,” she requests, reaching over. He reluctantly tells her what he needs, and gets into the chair without difficulty. She closes his door and begins to wheel him toward the front door.

He feels weird about it, about being pushed. Mostly he prefers to move himself, and Annette has seemed to want to push him around all evening. He hasn’t quite known how to tell her it doesn’t need to happen. He’s sure she means it to feel caring, but he feels a little…helpless.

Closer to the door, she stops, and he pivots to face her. “I’ve had a really nice evening,” he tells her, smiling and adjusting his glasses.

“Me, too,” she grins back, “Going to Prom with you has been something I’ve kinda wanted for a long time.”

“Really?” he asks, and swallows, taking the leap, “I’ve kinda had a crush on you for awhile.”

She smiles, sadly, “I wish I’d picked up on it earlier. Maybe we could have had a fun Senior year together.”

“Yeah,” Artie nods, “But I mean, you know, we can enjoy what’s left, see how it goes.”

“I’d be happy to spend some time with you for the remainder of the school year,” she agrees.

Artie’s heart is thumping oddly, “Yeah? I’d love that. And if it goes well, you know, maybe you could be my girlfriend. Might be long distance after the summer, but…”

Annette’s mouth twists, “Well…okay, I mean, I believe in being upfront, and honest. I know that…even if things go well, and we date all summer, when I go to college, I need to be single. Even if we’d been dating for years, once we go off to college, we’d be different people, and we’d need to be separate to grow.” Artie frowns a little, and she says, “That’s not to say that I don’t want to date and hang out with you all summer! I really like you, Artie. But…you know, it wouldn’t be _serious_. It’d be just for fun. Just something to do before we go off to college.”

Artie nods, and tries not to think about how it might hurt if he goes for this. “Yeah, okay. That could be cool,” he smiles.

“Cool,” she grins.

There’s an awkward moment of silence, and then Artie says, “So…”

Annette smirks. “So?”

“So, um,” he starts, “Do you want to come in? I could, I don’t know, make some coffee or something.”

“I’d like that,” she smiles, and he grins and turns to unlock the door. She pushes him inside through the threshold, and he tries not to feel emasculated by the fact that he isn’t really ushering her inside.

He does actually go into the kitchen and make coffee, which he wasn’t expecting to actually do. Annette sits at the table and watches. While the coffee brews, he slices up an apple for them to share, unable to figure out what else to offer. Besides, he wants something to do with his mouth, because he has no idea what to say, how to initiate what he wants to happen.

He sits across from Annette, and they eat the apple slowly, listening to the coffee pot hiss and steam and gurgle. But before it finishes, Annette asks quietly, “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

“What?” Artie asks. He feels like he already _did_ ask her what he wanted to know, namely, whether she’d be his girlfriend.

She shrugs, “I didn’t think we’d literally be having coffee, you know. Any time you want to move to your bedroom is fine by me.”

A rush of heat moves up and down Artie’s spine. He drops the piece of apple he’s holding. “Yeah, okay. Follow me.” His voice is eager.

Annette chuckles and follows him down the hall and into his room. He turns to face her once they’re inside, heart hammering. “I, um. Don’t know what you’re into, but…”

She crouches down in front of him. “I’m into you,” she says, and leans forward to kiss him.

It feels like it’s been forever since he’s kissed someone, and he can’t help the sharp intake of breath through his nose, the way his mouth seems to freeze for a moment. And then he’s kissing back, and she makes a pleased sound in the back of her throat.

He wants to touch her. She hasn’t quite touched him yet; her hands are on the arms of his wheelchair. He tentatively places hands on her shoulders, and she kneels to move her body closer to his, right up against his legs, he sees.

He kind of caresses her arms and shoulders for awhile, while they still kiss, pausing sometimes to catch their breath, smile, and then dive right back in. Finally, one hand slowly drifts down from her bare shoulder to trace the edge of her strapless dress against her chest. She makes an encouraging sort of moan, so he cups a breast over her dress. It feels like electricity in his palm, and before long his other hand joins the first, and he’s palming both of her breasts gently.

He’s so occupied that it takes him awhile to notice that her hands are currently caressing his legs. He only notices because of the way the fabric occasionally moves against his waist, where he has some sensation. He glances down and sees her hands, moving against his legs, and a part of him is repulsed. Why is she touching them? His scrawny, limp, _useless_ …he pushes the revulsion out of his mind. It isn’t often anymore that he _hates_ his legs like this, but watching her touch them…

“My zipper,” she murmurs, and Artie forgets entirely about where her hands are.

“Your…” he whispers.

“Zipper. Down my back.” She looks up at him with dark, dark eyes, and, swallowing nervously, he reaches around behind her back, while she leans over into his lap, and this time, he doesn’t think much about the fact that she’s all over his legs, because he’s thinking too much about how he’s unzipping her dress and how her face is right next to his…

She leans back and stands up, the dress sliding off her body, revealing matching bra and panties. They’re not too fancy, but Artie doesn’t care. He’s never been that obsessed with lingerie, mostly what was underneath it.

She kneels in front of him again, and they’re kissing more, and now his hands are sliding inside her bra. He likes _all_ breasts, honestly, but when he thinks about it, the appeal of Brittany’s body was its athleticism, its lean muscles and the angles of her bones. Annette, by contrast, is curves, and Artie can’t wait to cup all of them in his hands.

“Now your zipper,” she murmurs, and for a moment, Artie is confused, because _he’s_ not wearing a dress. But then he sees her hands, sliding up his legs to his waist, and he understands.

She’s slowly unbuckling and unzipping him, and he knows he’s already half-hard, just from their activities and his thoughts. And he really can’t wait for her to touch him. He certainly has sensation there. Whether it’s the same as other guys, he can’t really say, because the accident happened before he ever started masturbating, but he suspects his level of sensation is a little muted. But still, his junk works, and that’s all that matters to him, really.

That and, well…“Wait,” he murmurs, as she spreads open his fly wide and begins trying to draw him out.

“Hmm?” she asks, moving her hands back to stroke his legs.

“Can we…I don’t want to be in my chair for this. Can we move to the bed?”

She pouts a little, “Oh, but…I’ve always had a fantasy of going down on a guy in a wheelchair,” she murmurs seductively, eyes sparkling.

A part of Artie feels a rush of heat at her words, and he’s about to just let her do exactly that, but then he thinks for a moment and then asks, “ _Why_?”

She shrugs, and her eyes are lingering on the bulge of his boxers, “I don’t know. I’ve just always thought wheelchairs were hot.”

And again there’s that feeling of conflicted arousal and…shame. “Wait,” he says again, “You think wheelchairs are _hot_?”

For the first time, there’s a flicker of doubt in her eyes. She blinks, once. “Well, yeah. I’ve always been attracted to differently-abled people. Very attracted to paraplegics.”

“So you’re…attracted to my disability?”

“Well, yes.”

And in that moment, Artie feels horrified. He doesn’t understand how she could be attracted to the thing about himself that he feels makes him unattractive. He’s mostly made peace with it, sure, but he’s not _happy_ with it. And he’s always anticipated that anyone who falls for him would fall for him _in spite_ of his disability, not _because_ of it.

“Okay, we need to take a step back.”

“But why?” she asks, honestly puzzled, “I’m _attracted_ to you, your whole self. I was drawn to you because of your chair, sure, but you’re also sweet and smart and funny!”

“This is just too much for me,” he says, “It’s just. I don’t think I can tonight, if all I’m doing is fulfilling a fantasy for you.”

He can’t believe he’s about to turn down sex. But it just _bothers_ him so much. And a part of him realizes, it’s not that he wants to someone to be interested in him despite or because of his disability. He wants them to be interested in him in addition to his disability. He wants them to like him and also accept and love his disability. He doesn’t want them to hate that part of him, or to love that part of him first and foremost.

Maybe if they could actually date and actually be a long-term option, Artie might be able to work through Annette’s fetish for his disability. They might be able to talk about it, he might one day be able to accept that she loves him for him first. But for now?

He isn’t willing to go through with this feeling like an object for her to project her fantasies onto.

He asks her to leave, before she can protest whether or not this _is_ just a fantasy for her. She complies, apologizes, and asks if he’ll call her.

He tells her he doesn’t know.

 

_If I was a deep bathtub would you sink down to the bottom of my love_

 

It’s kind of a really amazing Prom.

She almost doesn’t have words, as she and Mike head home. She never dreamed she could possibly be Prom Queen. She had run on a whim, eager to attempt to make a point. She thought about the Prom Queen stereotype, the one that Quinn Fabray had so embodied, and then thought about Rachel winning. How that had given Rachel back her confidence, and, probably, girls like Rachel. Girls who were a little odd, a little different-looking.

She thought about how she hadn’t had a lot of Asian female role models growing up, and ran for Prom Queen to try to give that to younger Asian girls at this extremely white suburban high school.

She really had never expected to win.

Mike glances at her and smiles. “You’re still shocked,” he observes.

“I am,” she chuckles, “I never get any fame or recognition so I feel…”

“Good?” he offers.

“More than that. Like. Acknowledged.”

He gives her a funny look. Maybe he always felt acknowledged, she thinks. Or maybe that sort of attention isn’t so important to him. She doesn’t know.

She loves him, but in moments like this, she wishes he’d say something.

“What are you thinking about?”

He smiles. “Just you. And how I’m so happy you had a great Prom, and that we get to spend some time together tonight.”

She smiles. “Yeah. I’ve missed you.”

“I’m so glad I was able to come down here for this.”

She is, too. She knows it’s not easy for him to get time away from school.

He takes her back to his house. His parents aren’t waiting up; they’re early risers, and it’s kinda late. They leave their shoes by the front door and move quietly through the house, back to Mike’s bedroom.

He opens the door for her, and when she walks in, she stops for a moment, because something is different.

It’s extremely clean. Which, well, that’s not actually too out of character. Unlike most teenage boys, Mike always tended to keep his room pretty clean and organized. But it’s something else, too.

He wraps his arms around her from behind and kisses the top of her head. “Happy almost birthday,” he whispers.

Her heart thuds. It is, indeed, about a week from her birthday, and they both already knew Mike wouldn’t be able to come down the weekend closest to it. She’s pleased and a little surprised that he thought to celebrate it tonight.

“Thank you,” she whispers, tilting her head to catch his lips.

“I got you something,” he says quietly. He closes the bedroom door, and behind the door, there’s an object covered with a blanket. He removes the blanket with something of a flourish to reveal a large, long box, wrapped in simple brown wrapping paper.

Tina steps toward it. She’s surprised, even though she shouldn’t be. She crouches down and begins to carefully unwrap the present without tearing the paper, the way she was always taught. Mike stands in his suit and Spiderman socks and watches, smiling fondly.

When she parts the paper, she discovers that Mike has gotten her a keyboard. Like, a musical one. She looks up in shock.

He shrugs, “I know that, with going off to school, I mean, I know you haven’t decided where you’re going yet or what you’ll be studying. But I figure you might miss playing the piano, and maybe it won’t be easy to get into one of the piano practice rooms even if you do study music. So I figured you could take this and keep it in your dorm. It’s not too big, and when I researched online, I discovered this is supposed to be a pretty good brand, so…” He trails off, searching her face for a reaction.

Her reaction is to hug him, hard. He holds her, as she struggles with the fact that this is a moment in which he wanted her to say something, and she’s out of words.

But he understands all the same, and after some moments pass, he leads her to his bed. The comforter is very soft and cool against her skin, and Mike spoons her from behind while giddy emotions fill her.

And before too long, wordlessly, her reaching hands and the way she’s tilting her head for deeper kisses says exactly what she wants, and Mike is gently sliding her dress up her body, and pulling her panties down, and his own pants and underpants are halfway down his thighs.

When he slowly enters her, still spooning in the same way, Tina struggles to control the sound that wants to escape her. Like a sigh, but deeper, louder. It’s been _so long_ since she felt this, both the physical sensation of him pushing inside and this level of connection to him. Tears spring to her eyes as she thinks about how _hard_ it has been, to be away from him, and how little time they even really had to talk to each other. How some days, she half-forgot she even _had_ a boyfriend.

Tina arches her back to give Mike a better angle, and he pushes in fully. She can feel his tight abs against her ass, can feel the way he’s struggling to control his own breathing. He pulls out of her slowly, and then pushes his pants down past his knees and kicks one leg free. Tina takes the opportunity to kick her panties off fully so she can part her legs a little more, and Mike presses himself along her body, and guides himself back inside her slowly.

They make love slowly, with Mike pressed flush against her back, his arm wrapped around her body, not really touching anything erogenous, just holding her to him. He kisses her shoulders, neck, her hair, while he moves slowly inside her.

She doesn’t come, but Mike does, and after he relaxes and begins to move to touch her more, she stops his hands, and holds her to him. She listens to his soft breathing as they hold each other, and thinks, this is the happiest she’s ever been, because he’s here. He’s present.

 

_We could keep trying but things will never change_

 

He won’t admit it aloud, but coming back to McKinley to go to Prom is not nearly as magical as he’d thought it might be.

But he stays in the moment, for Blaine, during the entire dance. They get dinner beforehand, and that part is nice, as they catch up and give each other lingering looks over the table. Hardly anyone stares at them at Breadstix as they share a meal in their suits—even though Kurt’s suit has a very feminine cut. He hums sympathetically when Blaine doesn’t win Prom King—though Blaine is quick to recover and claims he never expected to win anyway, Kurt can see the disappointment in his eyes. Instead, they dance, they laugh with their friends, they eat. He can tell, by Blaine’s expression, that he is having a great Prom, and that he’s really glad Kurt is here.

Kurt is personally kind of proud of Brittany for managing to win Prom King. Even if it is essentially a cruel joke to some of the students, Brittany plays it completely…straight, for lack of a better word, and any malice washes right off of her. It’s a vast improvement from the McKinley that voted him Prom Queen just to hurt him, and he’s not sure how it has happened. Are people finally getting over themselves?

He supposes it doesn’t matter too much. It’s apparent that Blaine, Brittany and even Unique have felt pretty safe here this year, and if Kurt had to suffer for years to help make this possible for them, well, he won’t begrudge anyone too much.

After the dance, they head back to Kurt’s house, since it’s a bit closer, and, since Carole won’t be back from DC until tomorrow, it’s emptier. Only Sam is likely to be there, and even he might be hanging out with some friends after Prom.

Still, they creep into the house. It’s basically instinct, to move so quietly when the house is silent and dark. It feels like they’re younger again. Well, like Kurt is a year younger, anyway, and still living under his dad’s roof, and occasionally sneaking around. Not that it happened often, but…it did happen.

They head into Kurt’s bedroom, and before the door is even closed, Blaine is kissing him. It’s gentle, almost tentative, different from the semi-public pecks they’d exchanged outside of Breadstix and at Prom. It’s full of purpose, full of potential.

It feels like he hasn’t seen Blaine in forever, hasn’t been kissed like this in so long. And it’s true. It’s been since New Year. He got in late last night, after working a mid-shift at the restaurant. Sam had picked him up at the airport. And then Kurt had spent all day essentially twiddling his thumbs, because Blaine had insisted that they not see each other until dinner, like they were getting married or something. He should have found it romantic, and in a way he did, but he was also frustrated. They hadn’t seen each other in months, Blaine hadn’t come up for Spring Break, why was he so keen to delay their reunion?

But, in spite of the fact that he feels too old for Prom, he won’t deny that the whole situation felt quite romantic. He wishes he’d been in a state of mind to be more into the romantic setup Blaine had created.

His bedroom is fairly sparse these days. His old queen bed is still there, but much of his other furniture is gone. His closet is stuffed with old clothes, some of which, he thinks vaguely, he may be able to bring home for summer. He no longer has any kind of radio or iPod dock, or anything; heck, he didn’t even bring his computer home with him because he expected to be engrossed in Blaine the entire trip. Blaine seems to notice this because he’s fishing his phone out of his pocket and turns on a Pandora station. An old jazzy kind of station.

Blaine pulls Kurt to him and begins to…waltz, sort of. Kurt tips his head against Blaine’s as they move and it _is_ sweet, it _is_ romantic, but…“Sweetie?” Kurt murmurs, “Don’t you think we already danced enough this evening?”

Blaine is humming along to some Frank Sinatra song in his ear. He pulls away and smiles at Kurt, “If you say so,” he shrugs, and leans in to kiss Kurt once more.

The sense of urgency returns in Kurt’s chest, and he moves to begin unbuttoning Blaine’s shirt. Blaine chuckles a little, and lets him untie his bowtie and take off his shirt. He stands, then, his hair slightly mussed, in his undershirt and slacks.

“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” Kurt murmurs.

Blaine actually blushes at the words, which just makes Kurt smile more, and Blaine reaches to begin to undress Kurt. Kurt lets him. He can trust him to be careful with his clothes.

When they’re both down to socks and undergarments, Kurt abruptly frowns, “I like this. I like where this is going,” he assures, “But…I don’t want to get off to Frank Sinatra.”

Blaine laughs, and some tension leaves Kurt’s chest. He had been afraid of hurting his boyfriend’s feelings. “What would you prefer?” Blaine asks, reaching for his phone, the little speaker struggling to fill the room with music.

Kurt doesn’t really know, he just knows that Frank Sinatra doesn’t fit. “I don’t know. Something dancey.”

Blaine quirks his eyebrows, “Is that…the mood you’re in?”

Kurt knows it’s more than a question about music. Blaine had been expecting an evening of romantic love-making, and, sure, Kurt likes that. He likes that idea, but…a part of him is craving something wilder. Something more raw.

He waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t know. Maybe not dancey. Maybe power ballads or something. That might fit.”

Blaine nods, and turns on a Whitney Houston station. Kurt is satisfied, and, as Blaine begins to remove his underpants while Whitney softly croons “I Will Always Love You,” it feels like a good compromise.

And when they’re naked, kissing, here comes the moment Kurt never quite knows how to handle. “What do you want to do?” Blaine asks, between kisses, as Whitney crescendos into a key change.

He wants to give his standard answer. He wants oral. But he already feels guilty. Everything that Blaine has tried to do to make this evening special, he hasn’t responded well to, and he doesn’t know why, because he’s the romantic one. He wants to make Blaine happy. He wants them both to enjoy the evening.

Blaine has compromised so much this evening, that Kurt feels like it’s his turn.

He looks away from Blaine eyes and murmurs, “I want…I want to give you something special.”

Blaine stops moving for a moment. “Something…special?” he asks. He kisses Kurt’s jaw.

Kurt swallows. He knows, even though he doesn’t like to think about it or admit it, that Blaine wants to do something he doesn’t much like. Blaine never says anything, and he’s always happy to have sex when they do have it, but…Kurt can tell. Kurt can see in his eyes that he’d rather be fucking.

So he stands, and goes to rummage in his closet. He’s sure it’s in there. It’s not as though he’d taken this shoebox with him to New York. And he eventually finds it. The shoebox with the condoms and lube. He holds them up uncertainly and watches as Blaine’s face changes slowly to a little grin.

Kurt’s heart hammers and he struggles to tamp down his anxiety. He moves back over to the bed to sit next to his boyfriend.

“How do you want to do this?” Blaine asks softly. He takes Kurt’s hand gently.

Kurt laughs nervously. He knows which way it has to go. He can’t stay hard when he tries to do this for Blaine. “You can…do me.” He looks at him, very seriously. “Gently and slowly.”

“Of course,” Blaine promises, eyes abruptly sad. “Of course. I’ll do it right this time.”

Kurt nods. Maybe it will be okay this time, he tells himself. Neither of them knew what they were doing the first time, that’s got to be why it hurt so much.

Blaine is absolutely taking his time with him, which is nice. Kurt’s already starting to go soft due to nerves, and Blaine’s amazing hands and mouth are on him now, and before too long, Kurt is filled with desire once again, hard, heart racing, nerves jangling.

His desire is mostly to put his mouth on his boyfriend, but Blaine just smiles and begins rolling the condom on. He is clearly eager to get started. Kurt reaches out and begins to stroke him, to help him stay in the moment, but before too long, Blaine is gently coaxing him to lie on his back.

The condom. Kurt still doesn’t know how to feel about them. Soon after they first started trying sex, Blaine had insisted they use them. It had hurt Kurt at first. He felt like if they loved each other, they should be able to _feel_ each other. Of course, that was before he realized that anal wasn’t really his thing. But Blaine had insisted. He had pointed out that they’d never been tested, and that maybe by some fluke they’d contracted something and didn’t even know it, despite both being virgins before each other, and that it was better to be safe that sorry. Kurt understood that, but a part of him couldn’t help but be suspicious of Blaine, who felt they should be married before they stopped using them. He wanted that level of trust. Kurt just wanted love. He supposes it was a little naive of him, to think that loving each other could be a barrier to any diseases they didn’t know they might have. But…he wanted to trust Blaine. He wanted to feel like Blaine trusted him.

Kurt parts his legs, feeling anxious and wanton all at once. There’s a drizzle of cold lubricant that makes him gasp. He grasps himself, pumping slowly, trying to stay hot, trying to stay eager, trying to _want_ this.

“Breathe,” Blaine murmurs, stroking his thighs gently, and Kurt does. He takes deep breaths, and then he feels…something slowly circling, spreading moisture. It takes him a moment to realize it’s the head of Blaine’s cock.

And then, it’s pressing gently into him. So gently, but Kurt doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to open, how to give way, and he feels panicked. Will Blaine force his way inside again, not even realizing that what he’s doing hurts?

But Blaine retreats, circles again. His hand strokes Kurt’s stomach softly. “It’s okay,” he says, “I’ll be gentle. Trust me.”

Kurt nods, and when Blaine presses again, Kurt struggles to relax, and it’s not much, but…he feels himself open up to Blaine, just a little. Blaine stills. Kurt breathes. Blaine waits. Kurt forces himself to stay calm, and Blaine pushes a little more.

Bit by bit, Blaine pushes into him. It takes what feels like five whole minutes for the head of Blaine’s cock to push into him, and remarkably, they’re both staying hard. Kurt’s kept his hand on himself, stroking, and Blaine’s enthusiasm has kept him plenty aroused, despite the time it’s taking.

After this, it’s easier, a little. Blaine squirts some more lube on himself and slowly eases in more. Kurt takes stock of his feelings. He doesn’t… _hate_ this. He mostly just feels kind of uncomfortably full, it mostly just feels like Blaine doesn’t _belong_ there. It just feels wrong, and he doesn’t think it has anything to do with shame or internalized homophobia or anything. Even when he has watches porn, which admittedly he doesn’t do often, it’s oral. He really thinks that this…just doesn’t do it for him. Anal isn’t his preference.

But it’s certainly Blaine’s, and watching the flush on his boyfriend’s cheeks, watching him breathe erratically as he pushes in slowly…that helps keep him in the moment. That helps him stay hard.

By the time Blaine is fully buried inside him, Kurt is pretty relaxed about the whole thing. Blaine has been constantly applying more lube through the whole process, so Kurt really isn’t feeling pain. The stretching he’s experiencing is a little uncomfortable, and as deep as Blaine is inside him makes him feel weird. But it’s okay. He nods at Blaine.

Blaine pulls out slowly, applies more lube, and pushes back in.

It’s slow going. Not because Kurt is so tight that Blaine can barely move, but because Blaine is holding back. He’s being gentle. Kurt appreciates it. He doesn’t want to be pounded. He doesn’t want to be banged. Blaine obliges him, and Kurt tries to focus on his hand on his cock, tries to focus on the sensations there and ignore the weird feeling of Blaine moving inside him.

Kurt can’t quite get there. But Blaine does. A few minutes of slow, shallow thrusts inside Kurt and Blaine is coming inside the condom. Kurt feels it mostly as the jerking of his hips, and then a full thrust deep inside him, as Blaine finishes coming. A few moments later, Blaine pulls out with a deep sigh. Kurt just closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to look at what just was pulled out of him. He’s always afraid it might be messy or disgusting.

He opens his eyes when Blaine kisses him. “Thank you,” he murmurs, kissing Kurt again. Kurt nods awkwardly. Blaine wraps the tied-off condom in a tissue and tosses it in the trash—so that Carole won’t have to see it, Kurt supposes. He then takes another few tissues to gently wipe the excess lube off of Kurt’s cheeks. Afterwards, Blaine gazes at him with exhausted eyes, and then his eyes drop to Kurt’s hand, wrapped around himself, still.

Blaine smiles, “Want my help?”

“God, yes,” Kurt groans, and Blaine lowers his head to take Kurt into his mouth. Blaine is good at this. Before long, Kurt’s heart is racing, and he’s able to ignore the cool sensation of the lube drying on his cheeks that Blaine missed, the tender, too-moist sensations in his hole, the desire to go to the bathroom to take a shower after what just occurred…

Like usual, it doesn’t take long before Blaine’s mouth does something just right with the tongue or the suction or whatever that just makes Kurt explode. He almost can’t hear his own moans when this happens, he feels like he’s practically blacked out. When he opens his eyes, Blaine is sliding his cock out of his mouth. He swallows, wipes his mouth and grins. He tucks himself into bed beside Kurt and kisses him. Only a few minutes later, he’s asleep.

Despite the flood of sleepiness that washes over him, Kurt creeps silently out of bed to go to the bathroom and take a quick shower. He scrubs his skin raw.

They just had good sex, sure. Blaine looked like he had the best orgasm he’s had in a long time, and Kurt came amazingly hard, too.

But it frustrates him to know that this is only something he’s willing to do on occasion. He wishes he could give this to Blaine, always.

But, as he scrubs his skin and gently soaps up his ass many times, he knows, he can’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: Chapter titles from David Byrne and Fatboy Slim, “Here Lies Love (feat. Florence Welch),” Electric Guest, “American Daydream,” The Beatles, “In My Life,” Wolf Parade, “I’ll Believe in Anything,” Emily Jane White, “Dark Undercoat,” and Robyn, “With Every Heartbeat (feat. Kleerup).”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Gretchen: Female lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they've hash out their misconceptions of each other and landed on mutual respect, if not quite like  
> Jeremy: Male lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hook up at Gretchen's party, awkward since  
> Merry: Young lesbian in Glee, friends with Brittany, Blaine, Karofsky and Unique


	42. Riding high on love's true bluish light

_Riding high on love’s true bluish light_

 

She may have just nearly landed a great agent because of her conversation with Gretchen the previous night, but she can’t think much about it, because Rachel’s semester is fast reaching its end. Her finals themselves are not too bad. She has a final song prepared for her voice classes and a few papers to finish writing. The plays and musicals she was in this semester are serving as part of her final grade for one of her theater classes.

That final musical she’s in with Gretchen and Jeremy is wrapping up this week, too, which makes her last week of school a bit busy. The musical is okay. It does still manage to feel rushed, despite their work putting it together, but Quinn, whose Reading Period starts this weekend, should be coming down to see it, and then the two of them should be heading up to New Haven together, to enjoy a few days of Quinn’s Reading Period before her Finals Week.

Kurt is about to leave to escort Blaine to Prom and for the past week or so, has been happily doing a lot of the legwork to find them an apartment for when their lease runs out in a few months. Santana has been half-heartedly helping when she can, grumbling about getting up early to go look at place with him, but honestly, the two of them seem more excited about the prospect of moving than Rachel feels. She supposes it’s because their loves are both coming up to live in this new apartment. For Rachel, she feels almost like leaving this apartment will necessitate leaving something behind. Leaving behind the place where she really realized she fell for Quinn, where she and Quinn first really touched each other, watched each other come…

She blinks away the memories, feeling hot just thinking about it.

A few days before Kurt leaves for Lima, they have a little house meeting, and he shows Rachel and Santana pictures of an apartment he thinks they might be able to land. His father is willing to cosign on it if their credit check isn’t satisfactory—and really, Rachel expects it might not be. They’re all young and don’t have much credit to speak of.

“Hardwood floors in okay condition, three bedrooms, one and a half baths,” Kurt reports, “A little closer to downtown Brooklyn, and the neighborhood feels a little less sketchy than ours.”

“Yeah, my coworker lives near there,” Santana reports nonchalantly, “It’s not bad. Parking is a real bitch, though, that’s why I always take the bus when I go there to hang out. I might have to stab somebody to get a space, but…” she shrugs.

“With five of us it’s well within our price range,” Kurt says happily, “It also has a dishwasher and coin laundry in the basement. On the downside, we do have to pay for heat if we live here. And it’s kind of an old building, not insulated all that well. But even with that we should all be paying less than we do now.”

“That sounds great,” Rachel encourages.

“I took some pictures of the bedrooms,” Kurt reports, “Someone got a little creative with the painting. There’s a lilac one, which I’m picturing for Blaine and myself. It should be big enough for two. There’s a slightly bigger light orange room that I thought might work for Santana and Brittany. Rachel, I’m thinking you’ll understand if you get the smaller room. It’s pale green, but it has decent closet space.”

Rachel smiles and looks at the picture. It’s not a big room, sure, but then, honestly, Kurt and Santana’s shared rooms aren’t that big, either. But they’ve all learned how to live in close quarters. “It looks perfect,” she tells him honestly.

“Great!” Kurt enthuses, “I already told them we were interested in renting and they’re looking into my credit right now. It’s ready on July 1st, so we might have to make some arrangements to get out of this apartment early if we don’t want to pay double rent for a month. But call parents or do whatever you need to do to get a down payment ready. They want first, last and a security deposit of half a month’s rent.”

Santana sputters for a moment, then calms down. “Damn. How does anybody without comfortably financed parents move in this city?”

Rachel sends a text to her fathers immediately to tell them they’re working on getting next year’s apartment and she’ll need money soon. The double rent thing might be a real pain if they can’t get out of it and she’s not sure her parents will be happy to help her pay for that, but…

Santana stretches, “I can already picture Britts and I in that room. I mean, that orange is a godawful color, but we’ll make it work.”

“I quite like the color of my room,” Rachel smiles, “And I think Quinn will be happy to visit it.”

Santana smirks at her, “Yeah. And you guys can bang nowhere near my bed this time.”

Rachel blushes, “We aren’t banging near your bed _now_ , you know.”

“Good,” Santana studies her nails, “Because I never want to walk in on Quinn’s giant white ass up in the air.”

“Really? Because _you_ just brought it up,” Kurt points out playfully.

Santana scoffs, and Rachel chuckles a little, then wonders, “I…don’t want to be rude, because I’m looking forward to this a lot, but…what happens if anyone…breaks up during the next year?”

Santana’s face turns stony, and Kurt looks uncomfortable. They exchange a glance, and finally Kurt says, “Well, with four of us, we’d be paying to live there about the same as what we pay to live here right now. So it would probably be doable still. But obviously none of us want this to happen…”

“Obviously. I don’t want to even think about it happening to me. I’m sorry I brought it up, but it’s always good to plan for the future.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Santana asks, “Planning for the future?”

Rachel thinks about it for a moment, and it becomes quickly obvious that ever since this relationship started with Quinn, she feels like all she’s done is begun working to plan her future around it. Around Quinn. She’s re-imagined herself, as an adult, with a woman waiting for her at home. She’s forced herself to imagine the discomfort of thanking a female spouse when she wins her first Tony. She’s reached out to Gretchen for advice and found a potentially great queer-friendly representative for her future career. Quinn has become an inextricable part of her future planning, she realizes.

It scares her as much as it excites her.

“Actually…yes. I am very much planning for my future with Quinn. I try to take into account all possibilities, of course, but I’m very much hoping to keep her in my life.”

Santana nods thoughtfully and shrugs, “I get it.”

Rachel thinks about the terror of long-term relationships. She thinks about dating Finn, and trying to build her future around him and his needs and how she put her own on hold. She thinks about the ways being with Quinn might complicate her future, but, as far as she’s concerned, it’s worth it. Unlike sacrificing for Finn, she doesn’t have to give up her dream entirely. The only sacrifice she’d make by being with Quinn is having to deal with society’s prejudices about her.

She thinks about the Sondheim lyrics she’d always heard growing up. How her fathers would sing “Sorry-Grateful” to each other, sing that being together, being married, meant they were always happy but always sad. She hadn’t really understood what to make of that as a young person, but she understood it more now. Choosing someone to spend your life with meant not take any other chances, not having any other options. You could miss things. You might miss people that would have been good with you, good for you. But you’d be happy, too, because you’d be in love with someone who loved you back, and who you knew things worked with.

She realizes, of course, that she’s not nearly to that point with Quinn. Things are new. There’s still no guarantee that things won’t burn out, or that they’ll discover they don’t work as well as they thought. But for now, Rachel sees all the possibilities opening up in front of her, and they all involve Quinn.

She looks at Santana and Kurt again, “I just. I feel…a lot for her. I want her in my life, forever. I…” She can’t quite say the words she wants to say. It doesn’t feel quite right yet. She almost does, though. They’re almost true. “From the beginning, this relationship with Quinn has felt long-term. And while a part of me is terrified this is going to hold me back…most of me just thinks…it’s worth it, you know?”

“Absolutely,” Kurt answers, while Santana nods.

Rachel smiles at her two closest friends. They’ve both weathered difficult things in their relationships, and they both considered it worth it, too.

It gives Rachel hope.

 

_Just let me go we’ll meet again soon_

 

When Tina posts on Facebook that she has decided where she’s going to college, Mike is excited, but also disappointed that she hasn’t called him yet. So he sends her a “Congratulations” text with a smiley face and waits.

It isn’t until the evening that she responds, asking if it’s a good time to call him. He asks her to give him fifteen minutes, and quickly finishes up the dinner he’s eating in Kate and Sandra’s apartment with a few other friends (those of them who live in the same apartment building tend to take turns cooking and feeding each other). He excuses himself as Kate opens a bottle of wine for everyone to enjoy after the meal and promises he might come down a little later. Sandra tells him he’d better because they’re going to be watching a movie. But they let him get back up to his room without much of a fight.

He calls her when he gets up there, and she answers right away. “Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” he greets warmly, “Congratulations. Which school did you choose?”

“Temple,” she answers softly, “It has great science programs.”

“Is that what you want to study?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I’m not declaring anything, but…yeah. I think so.”

“That’s great,” Mike tells her, “I thought you wanted to go for music or something, but you’d be great at science, too.”

“Like I said, I just don’t know. They have a good music program, too, so…”

“Good,” Mike encourages, then thinks of something, “Where is Temple again?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mike nods to himself. He remembers now. He and Tina didn’t talk in depth about where she might want to go to school, but he does sort of remember now her mentioning schools in that area.

“I…don’t know what to do,” Tina says, sounding distraught.

“What do you mean? You’ve made a good decision.”

“I know, but…it’s so far from you.”

“I know,” Mike answers soothingly, “But we know how to deal with that.” They had talked, briefly, about her possibly coming to school in Chicago, and she had applied to a few schools in the area, but, it’s clear, they didn’t interest her as much as Temple. And that was fine with Mike. He wasn’t necessarily expecting her to come here. He’d have liked her to, of course, but he wants what’s best for _her_ overall. And though of course he isn’t looking forward to spending the next year or so apart (he can look into heading to Philadelphia after he finishes his program next year), he has faith in them.

“We do, but…I can’t decide if I’m willing to do this again.” She sounds teary already.

“Hey,” Mike says softly, “It’s okay. It’ll be easier this time. We’ve had practice. It’s okay to lead separate lives for a little while while we get our futures in order.”

“I know,” Tina sobs, “But I can’t decide just how separate I want our lives to be.”

There’s silence through the phone line for a moment. Mike’s stomach sinks.

“What are you…?” he asks, uncertain if he can speak anymore.

“I don’t know,” Tina says roughly, “I just feel like…it’s hopeless. I don’t know how we maintained our relationship this year, and with everything new, being in a new city, surrounded by new people, having to take new classes…I have no idea how I’m going to make time for anybody.”

Mike shrugs, “It’s just something you do. You make time for someone because you love them.”

“And I do love you,” she tells him, “But a part of me…feels like I need to start college with a clean slate.” She pauses. “Single.”

“I…” he has no idea what to say.

“I do love you. Really, I do. And when you’re home in Lima this summer, I want to enjoy what’s left of our relationship. But I need to start college without any ties, without anyone telling me, even unintentionally, what I should be doing. Even me deciding between science and music. I can’t let my thoughts about the stability of your dance career influence my decision. I have to choose for me.”

“How am I supposed to be okay with this?” Mike asks hollowly.

“By knowing that I refuse to let distance and responsibility to ourselves tear us apart. Maybe if we do this, after we’re both finished college, we can try again. Maybe our careers will take us to similar places. But for now…we’ve both got to focus on what we want for ourselves. I don’t want to make you feel like you have to come to Philadelphia. Just like you didn’t want to pressure me to come to Chicago. These are our _lives_ opening up for us. If we’re meant to be together, and I think we are, we’ll come together again, Mike.”

There isn’t much more to say. He tells her he accepts her decision, that they should continue to date through the summer, and that hopefully they can be friends even after they break up. He hangs up feeling hollow, empty, dry.

He doesn’t want to feel bitter, but it just seems _so_ unfair that he held out for her, and she can’t do the same for him.

But he tries not to think about it.

 

_If you need some time I don’t mind_

 

Friday night is the final night of Rachel’s musical, and the last night of the semester. Quinn’s Reading Period just began today, and so she is in the city tonight to watch Rachel’s play, and then the two of them are going to head to Yale to spend some time together before Quinn’s Finals start.

The musical has actually shaped up during the final few rehearsals to become something rather beautiful, but Rachel still hasn’t specifically invited Kurt or Santana to see it and, truth be told, they’re both so busy right now trying to lock down the apartment—and explore a few backup options in case that one falls through—that she doubts they even remember she’s in a musical right now. But she prefers it this way, prefers coming out from backstage to find Quinn waiting for her, alone.

They hug, and Quinn tells her she did a great job. Rachel tries to accept the compliment graciously, but mentally she is compiling all the things she wants to ask Quinn about her performance. She thinks, at least, that she can trust Quinn to be frank with her about performing, even though they are dating. It’s something she values about Quinn, that she believes in her, but can also criticize her constructively.

She shakes hands with others who came to see the show, thanking them, accepting their compliments, smiling. Soon, she realizes Gretchen is hovering near her, and she turns to her and touches her arm. “Gretchen,” she says, “This is my Quinn.”

Gretchen smiles at Quinn, who looks a bit surprised at the introduction. The two blondes shake hands, and Quinn tells her that she was great in the show. Gretchen accepts the compliment, and tells Quinn that she was glad to hear about her and Rachel.

Rachel notes Jeremy watching the exchange, and his expression is a little wry, but when he catches her eye, he just shrugs, grins, and gives her a thumbs up.

It’s probably the best she could ask for from him. They might never really be friends, but they respect each other. And, Rachel figures, that could be valuable if they ever end up working together someday.

They spend the night in Rachel’s bed, Rachel giddy at the thought of being finished with her first year of dramatic arts school, Quinn seeming apprehensive, preoccupied by the thought of her upcoming finals. They mostly just cuddle and kiss a little, but nothing too heavy, because Rachel is tired, from pouring her energy into the stage. Besides which, Santana is off work that night, and they’re never sure when she might come into the bedroom.

The next day, they head to New Haven, so that Quinn can start studying for her finals but the two of them can also spend some time together. It’s been too long, Rachel thinks. It’s been too long since she’s touched Quinn. Though she keeps telling herself she needs to be respectful of the fact that Quinn does need to actually study. It’s one reason they’re going to New Haven, actually. Other than the fact that Rachel hasn’t visited Quinn there nearly enough, Quinn had asked if she might be able to spend her Reading Period at school because, much as she loves spending time in New York, everything she needs to study is in New Haven, and she doesn’t want to try to study and realize she forgot something.

They ride the train together, and it’s actually a beautiful ride. The buildings and streets fade away to train tracks and stations surrounded by bright green trees and wild shrubbery, ushering in the coming summer. It’s not hot yet, still pleasant and mild, and the spring really hasn’t been all that rainy. It makes for nice travel.

They spend most of the day wandering parts of New Haven and the Yale campus, exploring things Rachel hasn’t had a chance to see yet, and after dinner, they head back to the dorm, where Quinn intends to get some work done.

When they get there, Stephanie is packing a bag. She smiles and greets them both, and Quinn asks, “What’s up?”

“I’m going to spend the weekend at Lulu’s,” Stephanie answers.

“Oh, come on. You don’t have to do that,” Quinn says guiltily.

Stephanie grins, “I just want to give you guys some privacy. I get how important that is. Sean and Steve had a whole system in place to give Steve and I some time alone when we needed it. I’m just paying it forward.”

Quinn is blushing, Rachel notices. “I just don’t want to kick you out if—”

“Believe me, it’s _fine_ ,” Stephanie assures, “If I need something from the room, I’ll call you first. Have fun!” she winks, and before too long, she’s leaving, a bag full of study materials and clothes slung over her shoulder.

Quinn sits down awkwardly on her bed, biting her lip. Rachel watches her, then walks over to stand next to her legs. Quinn glances over at her, but seems unable to keep eye contact. “It’s just weird,” she mumbles.

“What is?” Rachel asks.

Quinn shrugs one shoulder, “Just…everyone assuming we’re doing things we’re not doing yet.”

“Hey,” Rachel places a hand on Quinn’s knee, “We’re on no one’s schedule but our own. And we’re taking it slow. And that’s fine. Besides,” she climbs up to sit on the bed next to Quinn, “Alone time doesn’t have to mean sex. We have had plenty of alone time that we spent making out. And I’m really, really dying to kiss you right now.”

Quinn grins, and leans in to kiss her. Rachel feels it like warmth spread all over her body. She missed it. She missed the feel of Quinn’s body and lips against her. She missed being alone with her, being unselfconscious and free to let herself get lost in the moment.

It’s nearly an hour before they pull themselves apart, put back on their shirts, and Quinn finally gets started on her studying.

 

_What happens to us if we accept that I’m unfixable?_

 

Quinn is surprised by how much she’s actually able to get done with Rachel there. A part of her had been worried that nothing could possibly happen because they’d be unable to pull themselves apart, but they’re both displaying remarkable restraint. Rachel keeps reminding Quinn that she needs to study, and Quinn will manage to do so for long periods while Rachel watches movies on her laptop. But they spend time together, too. They’ll wake up curled together in Quinn’s bed, then go and get breakfast and often spend the late morning or early afternoon doing some walking or exploring together. After lunch, Quinn will really try to focus.

On Monday night, though, she gets a call from Stephanie. She’s actually taking a study break when it happens—which involves Rachel’s shirt being pulled up and her bra half off—but Quinn isn’t too upset, since she hasn’t heard from her roommate yet and she knew she was bound to need to come back to the room at some point. Rachel reclines against Quinn’s pillows, looking dazed, eyes bright, while Quinn answers. She manages to sound pretty nonchalant, she thinks. “What’s up?” she greets.

“Quinn?” Stephanie sounds angry, “Lulu and I need to come back, right now.”

“Oh, okay, that’s fine. Is everything okay?”

“No,” Stephanie says sharply, “It’s not.”

“Okay,” Quinn says.

“I’ll explain when I get here,” Stephanie says, and hangs up.

Quinn glances at Rachel, anxiety filling her chest. “Stephanie and Lulu are on their way here. It sounds like something’s wrong, but I don’t know what.”

Rachel sits up and immediately begins to adjust her clothes back into place. “Oh my God. Okay.” She watches Quinn worriedly.

There’s just a kind of tense near-silence in the room, as they sit and wait to find out what’s going to happen. Rachel reaches out a hand, and Quinn takes it.

When they hear Stephanie’s key in the door, Quinn sits up straighter. Rachel pulls her hand away. Stephanie storms in, and Lulu follows closely, looking frustrated.

Stephanie turns to look at Quinn and Rachel, both sitting on the bed. Quinn feels weird in the moment, like she’s about to be accused of something, but then Stephanie says, “You and I need to have a talk with Lulu. About her boyfriend.”

Quinn opens her mouth, but really doesn’t know what to say at first. She looks at Rachel, who just looks lost, and Quinn murmurs, “Can you…go visit with Sean for a little bit? We should probably talk in private.”

“I hate to send you away, but she’s probably right,” Stephanie tells Rachel apologetically.

Rachel nods and stands, smoothing her skirt and grabbing her phone. “Just…let me know if I can do anything.”

“I’ll tell Sean to expect you,” Quinn tells her as she leaves the room, and she dashes off a quick text to Sean, then puts her phone aside. Stephanie is staring at Lulu now, who is staring at the floor.

“Tell Quinn what happened tonight,” Stephanie commands.

Lulu rolls her eyes, “You are really making a big deal out of nothing,” she scoffs.

“If it’s nothing, then share.”

Lulu is quiet for a moment, then says, “We just had a fight. That’s all.”

“A fight about…” Stephanie prompts.

Lulu sighs, “A fight about how he doesn’t get to spend time with me this weekend.”

Quinn quickly puts pieces together and immediately feels guilty. Lulu probably isn’t comfortable having him over because Stephanie hates him. Stephanie is over there because she has Rachel over. It’s her fault.

“Because you’re busy studying for Finals!” Stephanie shouts. Quinn feels slightly relieved, but still awkward.

Lulu lifts her hands in a placating gesture, “His feelings are still valid. He’s allowed to have them.”

“But he’s _not_ allowed to try to guilt you into neglecting your school work just because he’s going to be sad for a few days!” Stephanie growls.

“Wait, back up,” Quinn says. She addresses Stephanie, “What did he say that makes this a big deal? Because on the surface, it sounds like Lulu has a point.”

“It’s not what he _said_ , it’s more how he made her _feel_ when he said it,” Stephanie says darkly. “You didn’t hear it, Quinn. You didn’t hear the way she sounded so desperate and helpless when she talked to him.”

“That’s _not_ how I sounded,” Lulu begins hotly.

“Oh, yes it is,” Stephanie insists, “This is the first time I’ve really been able to hear it, because you always make sure to disappear when this happens, don’t you? Even when we were at Steve’s. You told me later that he was convinced you were cheating on him with Steve. I didn’t put it together at the time, why you kept disappearing. I thought you were dealing with being sad because Steve’s mom reminded you of your dad. But I get it now. You were disappearing so that he could yell at you and the rest of us wouldn’t know.”

Quinn watches Lulu and sees her expression become remote, and she thinks, Stephanie has definitely hit something.

Finally, Lulu says, “So, what, you think yelling at me more is going to help?”

At this, it’s Stephanie’s turn to look blank, and then ashamed.

“I don’t want to yell at you,” Quinn says. “I guess I just wonder why you stay with him, if Stephanie is right, and he makes you feel awful.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Lulu says.

“I’ve dated for many reasons, and most of them ultimately had nothing to do with love,” Quinn says. “Try me.”

Lulu is quiet for a long moment, and then she finally says, “He’s been with me through so much. He was with me when my dad got sick. We had just started dating, and he didn’t shy away when I suddenly had this very real shit going on with my dad’s illness. He was with me when he died, and he helped my brothers a lot, made sure they got to school okay when my mom was too devastated to do anything but wallow in her own grief. He got us groceries. He helped me. He loved me and supported me while I grieved and helped me remember to pay the bills my mom was forgetting.” She shakes her head, and tears are welling in her eyes.

“What changed?” Stephanie asks dully, her voice much softer now.

Lulu shakes her head, “I don’t know. I got into school. He didn’t apply. He said he knew he’d never get into Yale and he didn’t want to go anywhere far from me and my family. He wanted to be here with us. But as soon as I started spending my time on campus…he became convinced I was cheating on him. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it and he asks about it all the time.”

“He harasses you about it,” Stephanie interrupts, and Lulu shrugs helplessly to concede the point, and Stephanie continues, “He’s bitter because he isn’t as smart as you, and doesn’t have the future you have, and he’s trying to drag you out of school to be with him, and to be on his level.”

“But that’s just it. He’s been with me through my hardest times. Maybe dealing with this is his. I can’t abandon him after all he’s done for me.”

“Even if he verbally abuses you?” Stephanie asks sharply.

Lulu doesn’t say anything for a long while. “I just can’t. I’m not…I’m not like you two. Look at you two. Dating comes easy for you. It isn’t for me and it never will be.”

“That’s no reason to stay with someone who makes you feel like this,” Stephanie growls, “Besides, that’s not true. There’s Steve.”

Lulu laughs hollowly, “I could never have done that to you.”

“Do what? He’s my ex and we’re friends now. I wouldn’t have cared if you two dated. I know you had a crush on him—even your boyfriend could tell. And I think Steve was—maybe is—into you.”

“And how will that work?” Lulu asks, “We live ten hours away from each other. Long distance, and he has responsibilities to his mother. I…I can’t get attached to her and watch her die, too.”

“But if Steve wasn’t in the situation he’s in…” Stephanie starts.

“If he weren’t, he’d still be with you. You think I don’t know that?” Lulu asks.

“Do you still love your boyfriend?” Quinn asks, interrupting the topic of Steve before it got heavier.

Lulu is quiet again, and seems to really be considering it. “I don’t know,” she finally says, “I…feel like I do, but maybe I just feel like I should.”

“Then don’t stay,” Quinn offers softly, “If you aren’t getting anything out of it, don’t stay.”

Lulu shakes her head, “I can’t abandon him.”

“You don’t have to put up with him,” Stephanie’s voice is rising again. “His biggest fear is that you’ll realize there are so many other guys out there who are better than he is. You already met one—Steve. You guys could’ve been something. Instead, all you have is this loser who is trying to make you fail.”

“You don’t even know him,” Lulu says coldly, “And you don’t even know what it’s like to be in a long-term relationship. What’s the longest yours has lasted? Five months?” She scoffs, “Stop talking about what you don’t understand.”

“What _you_ don’t understand is that you’re being _abused_!” Stephanie cries.

“I think I’m a better judge of that,” Lulu answers.

“Honestly,” Quinn says quietly, “I think she is.” Stephanie turns dark, angry eyes to her, and Quinn continues. “From what I hear, Lulu, it doesn’t sound good. But I also know we can’t convince you to do something you don’t want to do. If you _ever_ need help because you decide he _is_ hurting you…we’ll be there for you. But for now…go be with him if that’s what you want.”

Lulu shakes her head, “No. I don’t want to be with him tonight. He’s being a baby. Stephanie, I just want to continue hanging with you and watching bad movies during study breaks, alright?”

Stephanie bites her lip and says between clenched teeth. “Alright. But only if you turn your phone off.”

Lulu hesitates, looking scared for a moment, but then she nods. “Okay.”

Stephanie abruptly hugs her, and then Lulu turns to hug Quinn, too. “I know you guys care about me, but I’m fine, alright?” she says into Quinn’s shoulder.

Quinn meets Stephanie’s eye, and she can tell from the look they exchange, that neither of them think Lulu is fine.

Quinn wonders how the girl who has identified as a feminist for half her life could be the one in a potentially abusive relationship, and how the girl who rejects feminism could be the one trying to create an intervention for her.

Nothing is ever clear-cut, she thinks.

 

_I’m bathing your body, touch you in places only I know_

 

When Stephanie and Lulu head back to Lulu’s house, Quinn texts Rachel to let her know she can come back. Rachel returns quickly and immediately hugs Quinn. “That…seemed like it was going to be intense. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Quinn says quietly. “Stephanie was trying to have an intervention because she thinks Lulu’s boyfriend is probably abusive. I kind of agree. But Lulu wasn’t having it.”

“Oh, God. That sounds awful. Can we go beat him up?” Rachel clenches her fist, and Quinn suppresses a smile.

“I wish we could,” she says. “What did you do with Sean?” she asks, changing the subject.

“Oh, not much. He was studying for Chemistry, but he was fine to take a break. We played some fighting game. Soul Calibur or something.”

“Oh, yeah. That one’s kinda fun,” Quinn admits.

“Yeah. He even went easy on me a few times. He’s pretty cool.”

“He is,” Quinn nods, “I’m glad to have him for a friend.”

They sit back on the bed together, and Rachel melts into her side. “I’m glad to have you for a girlfriend,” she whispers.

Quinn leans back into her pillows, drawing Rachel down with her. “Believe me. Me, too.” She’s exhausted from the conversation, and before long, she and Rachel are both in their pajamas and are curled together, getting ready to sleep.

Quinn thanks God as she’s falling asleep that He’s brought good people into her life this year, especially Rachel.

Unfortunately, Rachel is heading home on Wednesday morning, in order to give Quinn all of Wednesday to study. So they really only have this Tuesday to enjoy together. But Quinn thinks optimistically. She’ll be heading down to New York after Finals to hang out with Rachel for about a week, and then she’ll be going back to Lima. She’ll be spending most of May and much of June in Lima, but then she’s planning to spend much of July in New York, to help Rachel and her roommates move and get situated in a new area. And also to take advantage of Rachel having her own bedroom, she thinks.

Maybe they’ll christen it with lovemaking.

She pushes those thoughts away. They seem wrong somehow, since it’s something they’re taking slowly.

Quinn doesn’t want to get out of bed, so she just stretches and slowly rolls onto her back to watch the ceiling and think for awhile, and just feel Rachel in bed next to her, listen to her breathing. Finally, the way Rachel nuzzles her shoulder alerts Quinn to the fact that she is also awake, and Quinn turns her head to grin at her. “Hey,” she murmurs.

Rachel smiles sleepily, “Good morning,” and pecks the corner of Quinn’s mouth.

Quinn closes her eyes and enjoys the moment, then Rachel murmurs, “Why don’t you stay in bed a little longer and I’ll go get us some breakfast and coffee?”

Quinn grins, eyes still closed, “That sounds amazing,” she murmurs.

Rachel climbs out of bed. “I’ll be back in a few. You rest. You’ve got lots of studying to do today!”

“Mmm,” Quinn smiles. She honestly isn’t that tired, but it’s nice to be left with her warm bed and the pillow that still smells like Rachel’s shampoo. So she curls up and enjoys the moment, and the warmth she feels that Rachel is taking care of her.

She dozes a little, but wakes up when she hears the sound of the doorknob rattling, not quite opening. She gets up quickly, assuming it’s locked, and rushes to open it. She’s surprised that the door is unlocked and then—

She’s shocked by cold and wet, all over her chest.

“Oh my God!” Rachel shrieks, as a second splash of cold hits Quinn.

Quinn is immediately furious. She opens her eyes, rage on the tip of her tongue, but the way that Rachel is looking at her, guilty and _terrified_ , suppresses her rage quickly, and she realizes just how frightening she must look to Rachel in her enraged state. She forces herself to calm down and take stock of the situation.

She takes a moment to steady her breath, then asks, “What happened?”

Rachel looks away, “I was having trouble opening the door while holding the two paper bags and the two iced coffees,” Rachel admits, and it’s then that Quinn notices the two paper bags of food lying on the ground in the puddle of icy coffee. “So I was leaning against the door and balancing both coffee cups on my arm and when you opened the door, I lost that balance. The first hit you right away. I almost managed to catch the second, but ended up batting it toward you instead, and I couldn’t keep hold of the food, too. I’m so sorry,” Rachel murmurs, sounding wounded. “But I have small hands,” she feebly defends herself, holding them up for Quinn to inspect.

Quinn forces a grin, finding, as she does so, that this is so ridiculous that it’s funny, and she laughs a little. “It’s okay,” she soothes. “But why didn’t you get a drink holder?”

Rachel’s brow furrows, “Well, they’re not exactly environmentally friendly,” she answers scornfully.

Quinn laughs, which just makes Rachel look uncertain and upset again, so Quinn reaches for her, “It’s seriously okay,” she says again. “I mean, I needed a shower this morning anyway.”

Rachel looks mortified. “I feel so stupid.” She sinks into Quinn’s arms, then jerks back, “You’re cold!”

“Well, you just threw iced coffee at me,” Quinn reminds her.

Rachel puts her face in her hands and sighs. “I’ll clean this up,” she gestures at the coffee covering the floor tile, “You shower.”

“I’ll help,” Quinn offers, but Rachel shakes her head emphatically, so Quinn shrugs and concedes.

The bathroom is actually shared with her neighboring room, but luckily it is vacant. Sighing, she shucks off her coffee-soaked clothes and turns on the hot spray. She soaps up her chest and then just stands for awhile, letting the warmth seep in, letting the water wash away the scent of coffee that is surely sticking to her.

When she hears a bathroom door opening, she nearly panics, thinking she must’ve forgotten to lock the second door that leads to her neighbor’s bedroom. “I’m in here!” she calls.

“It’s just me,” Rachel answers, “I’m washing my hands.”

“Oh my God, you gave me a heart attack,” Quinn tells her. She feels warmer, now, knowing that she’s naked and Rachel is only a yard away in the bathroom. She yanks the cold water nob a little bit to the left.

“I didn’t realize how messy I’d gotten until I was done cleaning,” Rachel says disgustedly. Quinn hears the sink running and quickly turns the cold water nob back to the right. The plumbing in the building is pretty good, but she hasn’t even run the sink and the shower at the same time. Best to not freeze.

“You’ll have to take a shower, too,” Quinn tells Rachel distractedly, playing with the water nobs, trying to find the perfect temperature again.

“Can I please?” Rachel asks.

“Of course,” Quinn says.

“I just want to get out of these clothes,” Rachel sighs.

“Oh. Well, I mean. Go ahead,” Quinn tells her. “If you’re uncomfortable…”

“What, right here?”

Quinn doesn’t know what to say. “I mean. I don’t want you to be standing around uncomfortable. And it’s just us in here.”

“True,” Rachel says.

Quinn barely hears the sound of clothes falling to the floor through the splash of the shower spray. Her heart thuds. She plays with the shower temperature even more, unsure whether she’s too cold or too hot right now. Rachel is naked only a yard away, through the shower curtain.

They’re both quiet for a moment, and Quinn finally reaches for the shampoo bottle, figuring she’d better actually finish her shower. Finally, Rachel speaks. “Well. Now I’m just kind of cold and sticky.”

“I’ll hurry up,” Quinn says quickly.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be patient.”

Quinn groans, “Just…get in the shower, Rachel,” she says, her voice wobbling a little. She’d tried to sound sure, commanding. Like the Cheerios captain she once was. And she _was_ a high school athlete. She’d showered with girls before. She could control herself.

“Get…in?”

“Yes. Just get in.” That wobble again. Quinn wants flow down the drain with the water every time her voice doesn’t cooperate.

“I’m coming in,” Rachel announces, and the shower curtain slides over, and Quinn is met with the sight of a naked Rachel Berry getting into the shower with her. “Ooh, that’s nice,” Rachel sighs, stepping right into the spray, blocking Quinn’s access to the water entirely.

“Hey,” Quinn scolds feebly, shampoo suds dripping down onto her face and shoulders, “I was just about to rinse.”

“Just a minute,” Rachel gurgles, putting her face under the spray as she speaks.

Quinn rolls her eyes and waits, until Rachel turns, and then they’re awkwardly trying to step by each other so Quinn can get to the spray. Both too nervous to touch each other, but unable to avoid it. Quinn lightly puts her hands on Rachel’s shoulders as they circle each other, and Rachel touches Quinn’s hip lightly with one hand. Quinn blinks rapidly and then puts her head under the spray, rinsing away the shampoo and feeling completely overwhelmed. They haven’t really done much except _shower_ together, but…Rachel is there, and naked. They’ve both politely averted their eyes—something Quinn does unconsciously due to Cheerios showers—but now that her back is to Rachel, Quinn wonders whether Rachel is staring at her ass, and finds the idea both elating and horrifying. Her heart is pounding and she tries to swallow, and finds her throat dry. She opens her mouth and swallows water directly from the spray.

When she turns, Rachel is massaging shampoo into her scalp. She smiles softly, as if nothing is abnormal, then closes her eyes as shampoo slides down her forehead. Quinn takes the moment to thank herself for putting in her contacts before getting in the shower, and then flicks her eyes up and down Rachel’s body: breasts she is very familiar with, lean stomach with a hint of abs, small hips, neatly trimmed…

Quinn averts her eyes back to Rachel’s face and helps her maneuver to the water to rinse off. They circle each other for several moments, soaping up, rinsing off, while Quinn sneaks glances and assumes Rachel is doing the same. Quinn can’t stop worrying about how her body appears next to Rachel’s, worries about scars and stretch marks that are mostly hidden but still visible, if Rachel really looks. The times she was in her underwear with Rachel, the lighting was much less intense.

As Rachel rinses soap off her body, Quinn steels her courage and moves, wrapping her arms around Rachel from behind. Rachel instantly leans back into her, sighing contentedly, arms moving to hold Quinn’s.

They stand, for a moment, naked and holding each other under the water, until, stomach a mess of queasy butterflies, Quinn begins to move her hand down Rachel’s body. She does it quickly, fearfully, and stops at Rachel’s hip. “Okay?” she whispers in Rachel’s ear. Rachel gasps out her assent, and Quinn lowers her fingers, probing gently until she is touching damp folds. She moves her fingers gently, trying to figure out what she is even _touching_ , but it’s so much harder on another human, when she can’t even see where her fingers are, so before long, she is kissing Rachel’s jaw and neck and withdrawing her hand, embarrassed.

Rachel turns and kisses her, wrapping her arms around Quinn’s body and laying her head against her chest. Quinn just holds her, knowing her heart is hammering and that Rachel can hear it. After a few moments, Rachel looks up at her, eyes scanning all over her face. “Quinn,” she says softly, “Whenever you’re ready, okay?”

Quinn nods, swallowing, knowing that she’s not quite ready, and relieved that Rachel understands and accepts that. It’s just so _scary_ , to know what she wants to do, but not how to do it, to not know how to push past her own inhibitions and fears to just _touch_ Rachel.

Rachel steps under the water one more time, a final rinse, then steps out of the shower. She’s waiting with a towel for Quinn when Quinn steps out.

Once they’re re-dressed—with Rachel borrowing some casual clothes from Quinn, since her last outfit is covered in coffee—Rachel smiles, “How about I try this whole breakfast thing again?”

“How about I come with you, and we just eat together?” Quinn offers.

Rachel half-smiles, “Someday, you’ll have to let me do something nice for you, and I promise I won’t make a mess of it.”

Quinn kisses her. “You do nice things for me every day,” she tells her softly, and Rachel grins shyly.

All Quinn knows is, she is excited for the day that she finally is, really, ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Blondie, “Heart of Glass,” Of Monster and Men, “Little Talks,” Tori Amos, “Sleeps with Butterflies,” Elite Gymnastics, “Here in Heaven 2,” and Frank Ocean, “Pyramids.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Gretchen: Female lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they've confided in each other and become friendly  
> Jeremy: Male lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hook up at Gretchen's party, awkward since  
> Sandra: One of Mike's closest friends at school  
> Kate: One of Mike's closest friends at school, doesn't seem fond of Tina  
> Stephanie: Quinn's roommate, they made out, things were weird, but improving, both seeing therapists  
> Lulu: Quinn's Yale friend, takes the Feminism seminar with her  
> Steve: Stephanie's ex-boyfriend, dropped out of Yale to help take care of his mom, who has ALS  
> Sean: Steve's roommate, Quinn's friend, one of her better Yale friends, wants to be an active gay ally


	43. I can dream no more, I've been chasing all of yours

_I can dream no more, I’ve been chasing all of yours_

 

Quinn and Rachel have both been done with school for about a week now, and Quinn has been at the apartment. She’ll be there for a little while before heading back to Lima for part of the summer. For her part, Santana can’t figure out if she wants to be around the apartment or away while she’s visiting. She likes spending time with Quinn, and Rachel, and Quinn and Rachel, but a part of her always feels like a boxblock. But another part of her _likes_ to be a boxblock, because damn it, that’s _her_ room they might be boning in.

Not that she can be sure that they’re boning. They’re weirdly chaste with each other. Rachel wears _shirts_ to bed when Quinn is there—something she doesn’t do when it’s just her and Santana.

But when they’re not talking and laughing and watching TV together, and when she and Quinn aren’t making fun of each other while Rachel is at work, Santana tries to spend her time with Angela. This is what she typically does anyway, these days, is go have sex with Angela when the time is right, but now, there’s an urgency to it. In a little more than a month, Brittany will be coming up to help them move. And then, well, she won’t be single anymore. Which is good in almost all ways, but she has to admit, she thinks she’s going to miss Angela.

Tonight, she’s off work; her hours still haven’t picked up since the new year began. No one’s have, and more people keep being hired. It’s nearly impossible for her to afford to live, but she hasn’t had the time or energy to look for another job either. The one perk of her consistently slashed hours, she supposes, is her free evenings that she spends getting laid or hanging out with her roommates.

Angela has invited her to get a quick meal, which is nice. Usually they just kind of meet up and get off, but they are friends, and she is someone Santana enjoys spending time with. So they go out and get burritos together, huge ones that look to be about the size of the human stomach. Santana digs into hers with gusto, but she notes that, as much as Angela is enjoying hers, she isn’t very talkative. Conversation tends to be easy between them.

Just as Santana is starting to get a little uneasy, Angela takes a breath and says, “I wanted to talk to you about Helen.”

Santana sighs and slumps back into her seat. Helen is someone they really haven’t talked about at all. Ever since Helen blew up at her and then stopped talking to her, Santana hasn’t even really tried to talk to her. But she knows that Angela and Helen are on good terms, and she assumes that Helen knows that she and Angela are friends with benefits. But she has to admit that when she does think of Helen, it hurts. She never intended to hurt Helen, but she had, and had been hurt in return. “What about her?” she mutters

Angela shrugs, “It’s just, I talk to both of you, and I know it’s awkward between you, but I want you both to have a friend at work.”

“We’re both friends with you,” Santana points out.

“Yeah, but we don’t work the same shift. And I’m realistic. I’m pretty sure that when your girlfriend comes up, you and I won’t see each other again.”

“Aw, come on,” Santana scoffs, but Angela gives her a wistful kind of look.

“I have a pretty good idea of how this will go. Either she’ll know who I am, and won’t want you to see me, or you’ll feel so awkward after it’s over that you’ll avoid me. I’m not naïve. We both knew this had an end date.”

“Only for the sex,” Santana argues stubbornly. Now that Angela has articulated the idea that their friendship itself might end, Santana feels strangely emotional about it.

Angela smiles, “You are both so stubborn.” Santana just glares for a moment, and Angela continues, “Honestly, any other two people would have started talking again, but you two…” she shakes her head.

“So we should be friends again because…?”

“You have a lot in common. And because I know that, even though she’s refusing to talk to you, that she does think about you, and does worry about you. She was sorry to hear about your breakup.”

“I’m sure,” Santana says sarcastically, unsure why she feels so hostile, “I’m sure she was so sorry that it wasn’t her that I approached for sex.”

Angela cracks a smile, “Not after she made it pretty clear she wasn’t into you that way.”

“Please, I’m so her type,” Santana sasses.

Angela laughs now, “Typically, yes, but you’re way too similar for her to fall for you. Trust me.”

“Whatever,” Santana responds after a moment.

“But that’s part of my point,” Angela continues, “She sees herself in you, and she worries that you’ll end up like her.”

“What, single?’ Santana furrows her brow.

“No. Stuck in a shitty job you hate.” Angela lets it sink in a moment, then spreads her hands, “I actually don’t have a big problem with the job. My schedule is regular, my work with the planograms is just intellectually stimulating enough that I don’t want to kill myself. I can still go to school. My hours are consistent. It’s not like you and Angela. You both have been fighting to make enough to live lately. Your boss is an idiot, your work is boring now that the remodel is over.”

“Sounds about right,” Santana mutters, subdued.

“Helen came to New York hoping to get into school. She’s smart, and she’s wanted to study Psychology since she was a kid and mental health issues arose in her family.” Santana’s immediately intrigued, but Angela doesn’t elaborate. “But she hasn’t been able to find the right balance of making enough to live and finding the time to go to school. It’s been entirely dependent on her getting financial aid, and she’s starting to give up on the idea of ever going.”

“That sucks,” Santana says.

“Yeah. And I’ve heard you say the same kind of thing once or twice. Helen’s biggest regret is that she hasn’t finished college, and she may never get the chance. If there’s any way that you can go…please, do it. Don’t get stuck at that shitty place like she is.”

Santana is quiet for a long moment. “Did Helen say this to you? About worrying about me getting into school?”

Angela nods, watching Santana’s face.

Finally, Santana shrugs, “I’ll look into it,” she says nonchalantly, “No promises, though. My girlfriend’s needs come first.” Angela looks a little bit crestfallen, but she nods in acceptance. Santana leans forward. “So tell me about the mental health issues that affected Helen’s family,” she says conspiratorially.

Angela chuckles wryly, “Ask her yourself, when you two are friends again.”

Santana sighs dramatically, “Guess I’ll have to talk to her,” she says loftily, then narrows her eyes, “You manipulative bitch,” she mutters, as it dawns on her that Angela has found _just_ the way to coerce Santana to give in and talk to Helen.

Angela just laughs.

 

_I fell into what I couldn’t see_

 

Kurt’s birthday is at the end of May, and what he wants more than anything is to spend it with Blaine. It’s been about a month since Prom, a week since the New Directions won at Nationals, and Blaine still has about a week of school left, so Kurt must travel back to Lima. He’s been saving money, and has enough to fly home. Blaine hasn’t been able to help him afford the ticket, unfortunately, but he has enough, and it will be worth it.

His birthday is actually a Monday, but the weekend before is celebration enough. It’ll be a short weekend, but worth it.

Blaine and his father pick Kurt up at the airport. He honestly isn’t sure if he’ll see Carole at all this weekend, and knows, unfortunately, that his father won’t be in town (however, he has tentative plans to fly down and see him after he moves into his new apartment). But for this weekend, he’ll probably see just Blaine.

Blaine’s father isn’t someone Kurt has ever gotten super comfortable around. He’s nice enough, but he’s much older than Kurt’s father, and clearly more wealthy; even now, Burt looks uncomfortable in the collared shirts he wears for work. Blaine’s father lives in them. He’s also just…aloof around Kurt. Blaine has expressed that he has a great relationship with his father, but this surprises Kurt, as he seems so closed off.

He just gets the impression that the man doesn’t like him.

But he picks Kurt up at the airport, and smiles tolerantly as Blaine kisses him, rather chastely, before they situate Kurt in the backseat and drive home.

It’s the last night of Blaine’s musical, or well, Artie’s musical, he supposes. They hadn’t been able to get the auditorium for the weekend because of Baccalaureate and other end-of-the-school-year events taking up the weekends in the final month of school, so Artie took what he could get and ran shows from Tuesday through Friday nights. Kurt feels lucky that he gets to watch this show, because Blaine has told him that it’s great. Blaine had enjoyed _A Streetcar Named Desire_ , too, but had confessed to Kurt that he felt like he was carrying the show, and he wasn’t comfortable in that role. Sugar had ended up almost too histrionic even for Blanche DuBois, and Artie’s choice for Stella, a girl that Kurt didn’t know, had been a weak choice.

But _Guys and Dolls_ is good. Kurt watches the show by himself; Blaine’s parents have already seen it earlier in the week. And he kind of loves it, and it grabs him in a way it never had before. Sam and Tina really shine as the leads falling reluctantly into love, with Sam charming and affable, Tina rigid and blossoming. And watching Blaine and Brittany play off each other as the supporting characters is really quite stunning, with Brittany oozing sex appeal while keeping Blaine at arm’s length, and Blaine being sulky and clumsily trying to stay in her good graces. And Unique. Kurt is surprised to see her play a male role, but she owns it, embodies both the masculine swagger and her own higher register, and knocks “Sit Down You’re Rockin’ The Boat” out of the park. Kurt gives it a standing ovation, it’s so good.

And the whole idea, the concept of marrying to tie down your man…it’s tongue in cheek, but Kurt feels like he gets it. Marry the man today…not because he’s perfect, because he may never change, but because waiting for the right time means it will never happen. There is no right time.

Kurt still feels like they’re probably too young to get married, just like Rachel and Finn were, but that doesn’t mean they can’t have a long engagement. And making it clear to Blaine just where he sees this relationship going seems important.

He goes out to the lobby to hug his friends and congratulate them on a good show. Sam is thrilled that he’s here and, like the good surrogate brother that he is, assures Kurt that Carole and Burt are well. He tells him about his plan to move to California with Puck; he’s planning to spend a month with his family in Kentucky after graduation and then drive out with Puck, probably driving Puck’s truck and towing Sam’s car. Kurt can see in Sam’s eyes that he’s visualizing his future with excitement, and that being with Mercedes and having Puck there, too, makes him feel happy and comfortable. It reminds Kurt of how he feels about having Blaine move to New York.

Tina finds him and hugs him first and she’s quick to note his new jacket—a birthday present from his dad—and compliment him on it. Despite her vastly different style, Tina has always understood fashion similarly to him. When he asks her how she’s been, her smile becomes a little weak, and she says that she’s going to school at Temple, but that she and Mike have broken up for now. “I wasn’t ready to make the kind of commitment that dating him, long distance, through college and through his entering the workforce, would be,” she tells Kurt sadly. “I still love him,” she continues wistfully, “And if life brings us back together, I’ll be so happy. But it isn’t going to work right now.”

Kurt gets that, he supposes. He’s glad that he and Blaine won’t be going through that.

Brittany doesn’t say much to him, just hugs him and tells him she will see him soon, when she’s living in his house. She then says something about “Lord Tubbington’s room” that makes Kurt abruptly realize that living with Brittany will mean living with that insane cat, and he’s anxious about the idea for the first time. But then Brittany smiles, and he finds he isn’t very nervous anymore. Brittany is strange but they’ve always gotten along.

He wants to congratulate Artie on his show, and finds him standing near Unique, so he congratulates her first. She grins shyly and shrugs and confesses that it was easy to play male and that she’s glad she doesn’t have to do it in daily life anymore, and that she’s looking forward to taking more steps in her transition. Artie looks guilty as she speaks, but Kurt brushes over it by congratulating him on a great show. He smiles genuinely, and tells Kurt that he’s been accepted to Emerson college and wants to study film. “I mean, I know it’s very different than directing for the stage, but I think I might have an eye for it,” he says, “Plus, it’s in Boston, and I’m excited to get out of Ohio.”

“Boston will interesting,” Kurt answers thoughtfully.

“I think I’ll fit right in. I’m kind of an asshole,” Artie says, smirking.

Kurt looks at him, and then glances at Unique, who has moved away and is talking to someone else. He wants to pry, but…he feels like he can more or less figure out what happened. He isn’t sure what to say.

“Sorry,” Artie says after a moment, “I just feel like an asshole for misgendering Unique in my casting. And I can say it’s artistic integrity all I want, except that I cast Stella in the play based on the fact that I was attracted to her.” He shrugs. “I have a lot to learn.”

“That’s a good place to start,” Kurt offers tentatively. “I hear college is a good place to learn. You know, about film, and also women, if that’s what you’re into.”

“You know it,” Artie affirms.

Blaine comes up behind him and lays a hand on his shoulder. “You ready?” he asks, smiling mostly with his eyes the way he always does.

“Yes,” Kurt kisses him, quickly, impulsively. “You were amazing.”

“Gaaaaay,” Artie teases as he rolls away. “Take care, Kurt,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Amazing, eh?” Blaine asks, sounding intrigued.

“Yes. And you were well-matched by everyone else on stage. What a great show!” he gushes.

Blaine smiles, “A good way to leave high school?”

“On top of your Nationals win? Of course,” Kurt answers. “Your Senior year was pretty epic, sweetie.”

Blaine grins again, and takes Kurt’s hand as they head back to the car.

That night, Blaine is so exhausted from being in school all day and onstage all night that they basically go right to bed. Kurt is tired, too. Travel exhausts him. They have all day tomorrow.

Except tomorrow is apparently a coffee date with Karofsky. Well, not _date_ -date, of course, but Blaine and Karofsky and the rest of the “gay secret society” would try to get together every two weeks or so. Today, it was just supposed to be Blaine and Karofsky, because they wanted to talk more candidly, but Kurt gets himself invited along.

Karofsky is waiting when they get to the Lima Bean. He already has a cup of some kind of sugary frozen coffee. Blaine goes up to order for himself and Kurt and Kurt sits to join him. “Hello, David.”

Karofsky smiles wanly, “Hey, Kurt. It’s good to see you. I didn’t know you were in town.”

“I’m just here for my birthday,” he answers. Karofsky wishes him a happy birthday and they sit kind of awkwardly, waiting for Blaine.

Blaine returns with Kurt’s regular order and his, and sits between Kurt and Karofsky, after giving Karofsky a kind of awkward half-hug with an arm around his shoulder. “How are you, Dave?” Blaine asks.

Karofsky shrugs, eyes flicking to Kurt. Blaine looks, too, and says easily, “I really haven’t told Kurt anything, so, if you haven’t confided in him, he doesn’t know.”

“I don’t know what?” Kurt asks, unable to help himself.

Karofsky glances at him and shrugs, “About my boyfriend.”

Kurt blinks. He didn’t know Karofsky had been seeing anyone. He’s happy, though, because it means Karofsky is moving on, _has_ moved on from him, and as flattering as it is for someone to have a crush on him…he wouldn’t wish unrequited feelings on anyone. “Oh! That’s great, David.”

“Blaine doesn’t necessarily agree,” he grumbles in return.

Kurt looks askance at Blaine, who looks stern. “Well, he’s much older, and he’s playing a large part in Dave’s college decisions.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow, “How much older?”

“He’s only twenty-nine,” Karofsky sighs.

“That’s not so bad,” Kurt shrugs.

Blaine taps his fingers, “It just doesn’t sit right with me when men troll online for teenage boys.”

Karofsky holds up his hands, “I contacted _him_ on the site, even though I was younger than the age range he was interested in.”

Blaine’s quiet while he digests this, and Kurt addresses Karofsky, “What about college?”

“I’m thinking about going to the Ohio state campus in Marion, and he lives kind of near there.”

“That’s great!” Kurt enthuses.

“I think so,” Karofsky agrees. He looks at Blaine, “And I’ve taken what you said into account. I’ll be living on campus my freshman year, and I’m not letting him pay for my first year of school. If we’re still together after that year, we can talk about it again. But…you’re right. I shouldn’t jump the gun and entangle finances when everything is so new.”

Blaine nods, seeming relieved, “Thank you.”

Kurt blinks. That’s the first thing he’s heard that actually gives him pause. Everything else Blaine seems upset about with this guy doesn’t seem like a big deal to him, but he can understand Blaine getting upset about Karofsky thinking of doing that. The rest of it? Well, it’s love.

“Do you love this guy?” Kurt asks, without really thinking about it.

Karofsky looks uncomfortable for a moment, but then he smiles a little. “We…yeah, I do.”

“You can see a future with him?”

“Isn’t that the point? I wouldn’t be doing this if I couldn’t.”

“That’s not always the point,” Blaine cuts in, “I mean, with your different ages and different stages of life, it might not work out. That doesn’t mean it’s not worth pursuing, just…” he trails off uncertainly.

“A future doesn’t have to mean forever,” Kurt says diplomatically, kicking Blaine lightly under the table.

“That’s what I’m trying to say,” Blaine say stubbornly, “That it’s okay if it doesn’t work out, it’s still worth pursuing, just be realistic …”

“I get it,” Karofsky says quickly, “Thanks, really.” He exchanges a subtle look of exasperation with Kurt, who rolls his eyes back. Blaine, bless him, is sweet, and charming, but isn’t _naturally_ romantic. He can be _so_ romantic, sure, but in grand, sweeping gestures, the kind he knows Kurt will love. The little things, not so much.

“How’s the sex?” Kurt asks, just as Blaine is taking a sip of coffee, hoping to make him choke.

Blaine does choke, and he and Karofsky both stifle grins. “It’s great, honestly,” Karofsky answers. Kurt hadn’t expected an answer, but it seems like he really wants to give one. “I mean, we’ve tried so many things together, and so much of it is really great. I’m really learning who I am sexually and he’s been great helping me figure it out.”

“You’re a big nelly bottom, aren’t you?” Blaine teases, coming up for air, and it’s Kurt’s turn to choke.

They talk about other things for awhile, and the conversation turns light, and any lingering frustration Kurt and Karofsky have with Blaine is gone by the time they all shake hands, and Kurt wishes Karofsky luck at school.

They go back to Blaine’s house and watch old movies in his room for awhile, and Kurt wonders if Blaine would be with him still if he were older, or if they hadn’t been together this long. It’s scary to think about.

Before bed, they make love, with their mouths and hands, and Kurt thinks he’ll adore Blaine’s sleepy post-orgasmic face for the rest of his life.

 

_Let the rain come down, let the wind blow through me_

 

Sunday is really the day they celebrate Kurt’s birthday, and Blaine starts with breakfast in bed. They spend most of the day half-naked and watching musicals. They watch _Moulin Rouge_ and sing the “Elephant Love Medley” at the top of their lungs, dancing around Blaine’s bedroom. Blaine sings all the male parts, his voice straining on “Roxanne” while Kurt handles all the female parts—really, mostly Nicole Kidman.

It’s a good day, and during the slow parts of _Cabaret_ and _Hedwig and the Angry Inch_ , they make out.

Blaine takes him out to dinner, and even though it’s just Breadstix, it’s still nice, and the tiramisu that they splurge on after the meal is spectacular.

When they get home, Blaine gives him a gift to open, and it’s a new vest, as well as a CD made by Blaine, featuring a lot of songs, mostly sung by him. Which is funny, considering soon he’ll be hearing him sing almost every day.

Kurt grins and kisses him, “This has been an amazing birthday celebration.”

“I’m so glad,” Blaine says, sounding nervous.

“I have something I want to tell you,” Kurt says, his heart beating hard.

“Me, too,” Blaine says softly.

Kurt takes a deep breath, and blurts, “I know we’re young, and we’re still _too_ young, but I want to marry you. Not right away, or even in the next few years, but…I want to let you know that I’m thinking about it. And I want to get you a ring, when you come to New York. And I want a long engagement, but…I want the engagement.”

Blaine is smiling, his eyes sparkling, and he whispers, “I would love that.”

Kurt leans in and kisses him, and holds him as he notices Blaine’s shoulders are shaking. It’s a long while before he remembers that Blaine had said he needed to tell him something, too.

“What did you want to tell me?” he finally coaxes.

Blaine straightens, and tries to arrange his face so that it’s neutral. “I need to talk to you…about New York.”

Kurt nods. They haven’t talked about it enough, and they definitely need to get the details straight. “Yeah, we do need to talk about it. We have our new lease ready for July, so…”

Blaine is shaking his head, and he sighs. “No. We need to talk about it because…I don’t think I’m coming to New York.”

Kurt’s heart stops. “What do you mean?” he asks quietly. His stomach is tight, painful.

Blaine looks down, “I didn’t know how to tell you…you were so set on me coming there. I applied to a lot of the performing arts schools there, but…I didn’t get into any. I got into the waiting list for NYU, but not Tisch.”

“It’s okay,” Kurt says quickly, “I mean, I didn’t get in either, but I’m going to try again. You don’t need to start school right away.”

Blaine looks uncertain, “I considered trying for the waiting list, but…then I started getting acceptance letters from other places. Places…not in New York.” He meets Kurt’s eyes, “When I didn’t come up during Spring Break, I was travelling with my dad, but it wasn’t for his work. We went down to North Carolina to tour the UNC campus.”

“What even is that?” Kurt asks, his voice dull and low.

“University of North Carolina, in Chapel Hill,” Blaine answers, and already there’s a light in his eyes. “It’s…I don’t even know. Just walking around Chapel Hill with my dad…I can’t explain it, but I loved it. I felt more comfortable there than I ever have in New York. The campus is gorgeous. We went to this cute little shop selling local pottery and jewelry from local artists. And we went to this Mediterranean deli that was out of this world. Lamb kabobs…I can’t even begin to tell you. And I felt _great_. It was beautiful out. The people were friendly. I really felt like I belonged there. And they have a great college sports culture! And, most importantly, a great Social Work program.”

“Social Work?” Kurt asks. He feels like he’s in some alternate universe, and that he doesn’t know this Blaine at all.

“Yeah,” Blaine answers, and looks away. “When I was coming up with backup plans in case I couldn’t get into a performing arts school, I started looking at what else I could do. And I realized I really, really like helping people. And I think I might be better at it than performing, honestly.” Kurt begins to scoff, but Blaine cuts him off, “Every school told me I didn’t have a strong enough voice. My voice is _bland_ , Kurt. I’ve accepted it. That’s why I made sure I had good parts in the school play and musical, why I made sure I had a solo at Nationals. Because it was my last chance. It’s not going to be my career, so I wanted to perform as much as I still can. Once I get to college…I’ll be overshadowed. I wanted to enjoy the spotlight while I could…”

“You…you’re not thinking clearly,” Kurt begins feebly, “It’s probably just a difficult year for the performing arts schools, or the New York schools. Lots of people are going back to school. Just try again next year. I know someone will recognize your talent!”

“No,” Blaine says, “Someone will recognize _yours_. You just have to give them the chance. But me? I’m going to Chapel Hill, and I’m going to learn to help people.”

“This is…” Kurt can barely breathe.

“I had no idea how to _tell_ you,” Blaine says, “Because you were so convinced I was coming to New York. I kept trying to find a way. I kept considering the NYU waiting list. But when I went to Chapel Hill…that basically sealed it. I loved UNC too much to not go. I have to do this for _me_.”

“What about us?” Kurt croaks.

“We can do the long-distance thing,” Blaine says optimistically. “I know it won’t be easy, or what we want, but I want to stay together. I want to be engaged to you.”

“Are you _kidding_?” Kurt spits suddenly, feeling his anger well, “You knew for _months_ that you weren’t coming to New York, and you wouldn’t _tell_ me?! You let me think it was going to be _fine_ , you let me think we’d _finally_ be together, I held on all year, waiting for you, and _now_ you’re telling me you won’t be there, after I already signed a new lease and I have a two jobs and an internship and I’m _where I want to be_? I can’t believe this.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You think this _doesn’t_ hurt?! Knowing how long you knew and finding out _now_?!” Kurt shrieks.

Blaine lowers his head. “I’m sorry. I just…couldn’t break your heart.”

“You did anyway!” Kurt shouts.

Blaine lowers his head again, wincing, “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you however I can, but…I need to do this for me.”

“I’ve been doing everything I can in New York for _us_!” Kurt shoots back, “I can’t fucking do this,” he sobs.

“I’m so sorry,” Blaine babbles desperately. “I didn’t mean for this to upset you so much.”

“I love you, but you’re an idiot,” Kurt snarls, “I love you so much, but I just can’t.”

“I love you, too,” Blaine pleads, “And I don’t want to lose you. Isn’t that what matters? We love each other. I want to get engaged.”

“No!” Kurt says sharply, “What matters is _trust_ and _honesty_ and _communication_! You didn’t tell me this for _months_! You didn’t even tell me you were applying to other schools! And you lied to me about how much you love fucking my ass and then made me feel guilty whenever I didn’t want to give it you!”

Blaine’s mouth is hanging open, “I _never_ meant to do that! I was happy to compromise with you.”

Rationally, Kurt can see that. He mostly put the guilt on himself, the worry that he couldn’t satisfy Blaine fully. But he’s too angry to care, “Come to New York with me, or the relationship’s over,” he says defiantly.

“I can’t come to New York under duress. You know that,” Blaine says softly, “I have to go to UNC for me. It doesn’t have to be the end for us.”

“No, it isn’t,” Kurt says, and Blaine looks relieved for a moment until he says, “It’s your dishonesty that’s the end of us.”

Blaine is crying now, and Kurt is, too. “Fuck you. I love you,” Kurt sobs, kissing him and biting his lips and shoulder, until Blaine cries out. And then Blaine’s nails are raking down Kurt’s back, and Kurt yelps in return.

The sex that follows is mostly a mess of anger and sadism, with scratching and biting and rough kisses, while they both masturbate. At one point, Kurt threatens to fuck Blaine’s ass, out of anger more than desire, but never makes a move to do so, and Blaine just moans helplessly, moving his hand faster over himself.

Kurt comes first, and he’s never really come while angry and crying before. He’s not even sure why this was the natural reaction in the situation, and he feels sick and hurt as soon as it’s over. He reaches forward to hold Blaine, whispering, “Fuck you, I love you so much, fuck you,” over and over in his ear, until Blaine comes, too, with a strangled sob.

They fall together on the bed, holding each other, and Kurt knows it’s over, he knows it’s has to be over, after this.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still love him so much it hurts.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish they could still be together.

That doesn’t mean they don’t spend the night curled around each other, crying themselves in and out of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Daughter, “Peter,” Scenic, “Another Sky,” and Annie Lennox, “Walking on Broken Glass.”
> 
> OC Guide:   
> Angela: Santana's fuckbuddy, met through work  
> Helen: Santana's sarcastic gay coworker friend, currently not on speaking terms because Helen feels like Santana lied to her and used her


	44. Stay in school cause it's the best

_Stay in school cause it’s the best_

 

Brittany is coming up in about a week.

 _Brittany_ is coming up in about a _week_.

Santana is having trouble fully processing this.

It’s late June, and Quinn has come back from Lima to help them pack up the apartment for their move. Or, well, mostly she’s hanging out with Rachel, but when it comes time to pack, she’ll help. And then Brittany will be there to help on moving day, with her parents and her own belongings. They’re bringing a moving van, and so they will all be able to use it to move.

In the weeks since his breakup, Kurt has spent much of his time in his room. He’d finally told Rachel and Santana what had happened after several days of being home, and they were surprised, and hurt for him, and Santana felt scared, then, about Brittany. If _Blaine_ wasn’t coming…what about Brittany?

She’d reached out to Brittany for the first time in awhile, and they’d talked, and it felt good. Brittany reassured her that she was definitely coming to New York, and that she was in the process of applying to community college (after she’d gotten her GPA fixed a little) and wanted to study Communications. She assured Santana that she was willing and eager to be girlfriends again when she got there, and with Santana around to satisfy her, she wouldn’t be interested in anyone else.

It had been nice, and Santana at least felt good about the fact that they could communicate. Which Kurt and Blaine apparently couldn’t…

According to Kurt, he still loved Blaine, he just felt betrayed by the fact that Blaine hadn’t been able to tell him he wasn’t coming to New York, hadn’t been able to even give him a clue that he was considering other places. All because he hadn’t wanted to hurt him. Kurt acknowledged that he could see why Blaine had withheld the information, but was too angry to continue dating him, despite his feelings. It seems so frustrating to Santana that so many people who are still in love could break up over practical things.

They’d discussed finances, too, and though it wasn’t going to be quite as inexpensive as they’d all hoped, they’d be able to afford this apartment. It would be about the same as what they were paying now. Santana wants to be mad at Blaine for messing up their finances, but the way Kurt described the breakup, she can kind of forgive him. She can understand not wanting to tell someone something for fear of hurting them. It’s how her and Brittany’s relationship is going to have to operate for awhile, with both of them deliberately not talking about the sex they had while on break. The difference being, she supposes, that they both know a secret exists, that they both know there will be a time when it can come out, and that withholding it won’t hurt in the long run, it will help.

Still, it’s weird. Brittany’s coming up to go to school, and she still isn’t there, despite everyone telling her she should. Right now, her only passion in life is Brittany, really, and she knows she needs to find something else. One person can’t fulfill her all her life; she knows this even better, now, because of how fulfilling she’s actually found sleeping with Angela to be. In a different way, of course, but…the experience definitely enriched her life.

So one afternoon, when Rachel and Kurt are both at work, she sits down heavily next to Quinn on the couch. Quinn appears to ignore her, stays focused on her book, until Santana sips her coffee, stretches, and announces, “I want to apply to school.”

Quinn blinks, lowers her book, and drops it beside her, her attention fully on Santana. “Oh?” she asks mildly.

Santana nods, jaw firm. “Sure. I mean, I should prepare for the future, right? And that money from my mom shouldn’t go to waste.” Santana is proud of the fact that she even still _has_ the money; she’s been living with her eyes on her bank account, paycheck to paycheck, but she’s kept that money stashed aside in her other account. Waiting.

“I agree,” Quinn nods.

Santana stands and goes to the bedroom, coming back carrying the manila folder that Quinn gave her so many months ago. Quinn is smiling subtly now, watching as Santana flips it open and rummages through it randomly, “So what’s in here, anyway?” she asks.

“Admissions information. Pamphlets. Basics about nearby colleges. What are you thinking about studying?” she asks.

Santana shrugs, “I don’t really know yet. Just. Something…powerful.”

“Well, if you’re still thinking about performing, there are a lot of schools and programs with that kind of focus in the area,” Quinn suggests.

Santana twists her mouth. “I don’t know. School is hard for Rachel, and she’s a fucking star. She was born to perform. I just like it.”

Quinn is thoughtful. “I know what you mean. I was just talking to Kurt about this. He’s reapplying to NYADA, but he’s also going to apply at FIT. He thinks he’ll be happy either way.” She pauses, looking a little uncomfortable now. “And as much as I love the idea of studying Theater and maybe eventually the graduate Drama program, I just don’t even know if it’s worth trying. I’ve always felt I’m mediocre at best.”

Santana stares at her incredulously. “Seriously? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” At Quinn’s scowl, she clarifies quickly, “You spent all the time I’ve known you acting. Your entire self in high school was a performance, and you were such a fucking method actor that you got pregnant.” Quinn snorts, a note of levity in her otherwise fierce expression, “The only time I feel like you _weren’t_ performing was when you were _onstage_ , you twisted sister. That was like watching a different girl _entirely_ , one who was actually happy and sure and comfortable. Don’t tell me you and the stage aren’t soulmates, you freaking Bette Davis clone.”

“Bette Davis?” Quinn returns, sounding skeptical. “I look nothing like her.”

“Whatever, would you prefer Carol Channing?”

“Wow. Maybe you need glasses.”

“You white girls all look alike.”

Quinn laughs now. “Well. Point taken. Thanks, I think.”

“Yeah,” Santana returns, shrugging. Then, “What do you think about law?”

Eyebrows rising at the subject change, Quinn says, “Oh, I’ve thought about it. Especially when watching what my mom was going through with the divorce and stuff. But I think I don’t quite have the temperament for law.”

“Not for you, freaking narcissist. For me.”

“Oh.” Quinn digests this for a moment. “I could see it. The way you’ve had to deal with stuff at work, I could see why law would attract you.”

Santana nods, “Yeah,” she agrees emphatically.

“That’s pretty awesome, really. You could go through law school, and then go back and work against the company that mistreated you. Maybe you could look into labor law.”

Santana snorts, “Oh, I wouldn’t go to law school to fight for the little guy. I’d go just to ensure that I’m never the little guy ever again. Money, power. Not goodwill.”

Quinn looks taken aback. “Oh. Well. I see,” she sounds almost disappointed. “Well, you’d probably want to study English.”

“ _English_?” Santana asks incredulously.

“Yeah. When I was looking into law myself, I found out it’s the most looked-for degree for most law schools. I mean, I haven’t ruled out law, but it isn’t why I’m getting an English degree.”

“ _English_ ,” Santana repeats, this time scornfully.

“If I recall, you were pretty good at English,” Quinn muses. Santana just looks at her darkly. “I remember the year you ‘accidentally’ took Honors English.” Santana scowls now. She had been recommended for the class, and had gone for it, but the next year, went back down to the class Brittany was in. She hadn’t liked the way Puck and the others had made fun of her for being in the class; she never had Quinn’s skill at making people forget about Honor Roll. “I mean, you had a unique perspective,” Quinn continues, “You thought Winston in _1984_ was a big pansy, which was an interesting way to look at the futility of that novel. And you were the one who pointed out to us all that _Lord of the Flies_ was just a metaphor for regular high school, and was just pretending to be _Survivor_ instead.”

“Whatever. That year was easy. That was the year we all just wrote dark poetry and the teacher just ate it up.”

“She had a particular liking for you,” Quinn accuses, or at least it feels like an accusation to Santana.

“English sounds boring, but whatever. If it helps me on my path to never working at my shitty job again…” she concedes.

“Look into it,” Quinn recommends. “Figure out where you might want to go and I can help you apply, but, I mean, it’s going to be mostly up to you. And some schools want application essays, and I’ll tell you right now that they’re stupid. Like, ‘If you could have dinner with three people, dead or alive, who would they be?’ kind of stupid.”

“That’s easy. Sun Tzu, Sappho and Selena,” Santana says instantly.

Quinn blinks at her. “O…kay. Well. Just say why and you’ve got yourself an application essay.”

“Well. Thanks,” Santana says begrudgingly, “I’ll look into it.”

She heads back to her room to put the folder away and Quinn asks, “What changed?”

Santana shrugs. She doesn’t really know how she’s going to answer, but this is what comes out of her mouth: “I figured if Brittany wasn’t afraid, why should I be?”

Quinn looks proud, until Santana tells her that this isn’t a _Full House_ episode and they aren’t having a moment. Then Quinn just looks exasperated, and picks her book back up.

 

_It’s like forgetting the words to your favorite song_

 

When Brittany does come up, it’s a whirlwind. They’ll be moving in less than a week, and they’re packing things. There’s a stack of boxes, of books and movies and clothes, stacked up by the front door of the apartment when Brittany arrives.

Santana drags Brittany's suitcase to her and Rachel’s room, which is a mess, but she finds a place to stash it. They sit next to each other on the bed, and stare at one another. The door is closed, Kurt is working, and Rachel and Quinn are out somewhere. They have privacy, for now.

“So,” Santana begins awkwardly.

“So, yeah. Here I am,” Brittany responds.

“Yeah.” She’s happy, definitely. But at the moment, it’s just…hard to make that transition, from exes, back to girlfriends again. “How do we do this?”

“I don’t really know,” Brittany answers, “I mean, it seems easy to me. I’m here, so we’re us again.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Santana says, “I guess I just…it’s hard. I’ve barely talked to you in months, and of course I still love you, but I feel like I have to get to know you again? Like, I didn’t know you were interested in studying Communications. Plus like there’s this thing hanging over my head where I know we both got laid and I want to tell you, because we work well with honestly, but I know we can’t talk about it yet, it’s too soon…”

Brittany’s hand inches closer, and her pinky hooks out to wrap around Santana’s. Santana smiles. It feels so familiar, yet she aches. It’s nostalgic, but, she tells herself, she _can’t_ be nostalgic about something that’s not gone.

“I get it,” Brittany says. “But like, as for college, what did you think the Muckraker was about for me? I like journalism. I feel like they are a very important part of society. And I feel like there’s a lot out there that should get reported on, but doesn’t.”

“I can agree with that,” Santana replies, but it feels like talking to someone she doesn’t know. Maybe she and Brittany need to talk more.

“We can take it slow,” Brittany offers.

Santana laughs, “If you’d asked me back when we went on break whether I would ever agree to that, I’d punch you. I mean. I spent most of my time not being able to wait until I could fuck you silly, really rock your socks off…”

“I missed you, too. But I understand if you need it to be slow.”

“…maybe I do,” Santana says softly, feeling silly.

“Okay,” Brittany shrugs.

Santana moves her hand, and it’s gripping Brittany’s. They hold hands for a long moment, just sitting. Brittany smells so familiar, it almost brings tears to her eyes. Like flowers and something fresh and sharp, like pine. It settles in her chest again, that nostalgic feeling, of something she never really lost.

Before long, they’re reclining back on Santana’s bed, just talking, shoulder to shoulder. She asks about Brittany’s plans for the future, she asks about high school, about Brittany’s part in the musical, about her friendship with Artie, her friendship with Blaine, about mentoring Merry. She talks about work, she talks about Helen, who she’s slowly rebuilding a friendship with, about how Helen had admitted that she’s struggled dealing with her mother’s borderline personality disorder throughout her childhood, she talks about Rachel and Quinn, she talks about applying to schools to get in for the spring semester, she talks about aching for Kurt as she sees him plunge himself into work and into packing for the move, just to get his mind off of Blaine. They talk about music; about Lorde, about Janelle Monae, about Kimbra, about She & Him, about Dragonette. They talk about the future, and specific parts of the past.

It occurs to Santana that she’s always had a particular view of Brittany, as sort of slow and fragile, that isn’t exactly true. As she sits and talks to her now, it feels like she’s falling in love with someone completely different.

She thinks fleetingly of Angela, of the freedom they shared, and she wonders, doubts, now, if this thing with Brittany is going to feel the same as before.

 

_I feel like a golden star exploding_

 

They’re moving in only days.

Kurt has been hyper-focused on packing whenever he is home, to the point that there’s almost nothing left to pack that they won’t need to pack as they leave; things they’ll be using up until they go. Everyone has the next few days off for the move, but it seems that there really isn’t anything to do, nothing to prepare for. Kurt paces. Santana sits on the couch and grumbles, sipping coffee. Quinn, Rachel and Brittany sit around awkwardly.

When Kurt’s phone rings and it’s a coworker asking him to cover a work shift, he seems relieved, and immediately changes into his restaurant work uniform and heads out. For her part, Brittany seems to reach her limit with Santana’s grumbling and demands that they go outside.

“What? Why?” Santana squawks irritably.

“Because you’re grumpy because you haven’t slept, because you’re trying to get on a daytime schedule for the move, and I heard that to combat jet lag, you are supposed to walk around in the grass of the new place in your bare feet. And this is sort of like jet lag. So let’s go to Central Park and you can walk around.”

“I do _not_ want to go all the way to Manhattan just to _walk_ ,” Santana gripes, but Brittany’s stern look makes her roll her eyes and go get dressed.

“Want to come?” Brittany asks Rachel and Quinn.

“No thanks,” Rachel answers, quietly relieved to be apart from a grumpy Santana for awhile. She loves Santana like a sister, but that’s just it: like siblings, she’s not immune to being annoyed with her bad behavior.

When Santana and Brittany leave, Rachel sighs and slumps back onto the sofa. “Oy vey. I had no idea moving was going to be this stressful.”

“They say it’s one of the most stressful life events that someone can experience, after losing a loved one or losing a job,” Quinn muses.

Rachel tilts her head thoughtfully, “Huh. I mean, I feel pretty good about the move itself. But I was pretty out of the loop with the apartment hunting process. That was mostly Kurt and Santana.”

“I’m actually surprised you left it to them,” Quinn says half-playfully, but it’s a serious remark.

“Kurt wanted to. They both did. They were the ones who needed a bigger apartment, what with Brittany and Blaine supposed to be coming. Since my girlfriend is long distance…”

Quinn puts an arm around her shoulder and moves closer to her, “Not that far,” she soothes.

“I know,” Rachel sighs, “And considering what a lot of our friends have been through with long distance relationships, it’s really nothing, but…it’s really no fun to only have some weekends to see you. It was torture when you were in Lima and I was here.”

Quinn smiles sadly, “It was for me, too. I lived for those phone calls.”

“I’m scared sometimes,” Rachel confesses, “Because of what happened to Kurt and Blaine and, I hear, to Tina and Mike. And even Santana and Brittany for a little while. I don’t think I could ever take a break from you.”

“Me neither,” Quinn agrees, “That just seems…risky.”

“I understand why they did it. I mean, I remember when Santana opened up her relationship, I guess it made sense to me. It worked for them.”

“Rachel,” Quinn says guardedly, “If you’re trying to suggest opening our relationship, I’m going to have to object.”

“No!” Rachel blushes, hard. “I’m not trying to suggest that at all. I’m just…I’m just kind of marveling that Sam and Mercedes made it, but not Tina and Mike.”

“Good,” Quinn says, “Because I’ve cheated enough in my life, and I never want to do it again. Even if it wouldn’t technically be cheating.”

“And I’m far too selfish to share you,” Rachel confirms, “I want monogamy, Quinn. I’m glad that openness worked for Sam and Mercedes and for Santana and Brittany, but…it’s not for me.”

“It wasn’t monogamy that broke up Tina and Mike or Kurt and Blaine,” Quinn says, finally putting pieces together, “I mean, Tina and I kind of lost touch since I went to school, so I don’t know anything about her and Mike, but Kurt and Blaine, it sounds like, broke up because they weren’t communicating well.”

“Yeah,” Rachel says sadly, “Which is so tragic, because they’re still in love. I lost touch with Tina a little, too, but from what I understand…she wanted to be single when she went to college.”

Quinn remembers her own promise to herself, her promise not to drag anchors of her past with her to Yale. She wonders, with a bit of mixed pride and guilt, if Tina got the idea from her. The idea had been easy when she had framed it in terms of the boyfriends she had never really loved, had never been attracted to. With Rachel, she never wanted to cut contact. Not that she sees Rachel as an anchor. Rachel is a sail.

“I can respect that,” Quinn says quietly, “The need for a fresh start.”

Rachel moves closer to her, wrapping her arms around her and nuzzling her neck. “I’m glad you never felt like you needed to be away from me to start your future.”

She chuckles, “Yeah, well. I never could tear myself away from you. I was too in…had too many feelings.”

She blushes, and Rachel’s only reaction is to squeeze her hard, once, and they sit, letting the words Quinn almost said drift around the room, like an echo in both their heads.

“So,” Rachel finally says tentatively, and Quinn feels a jolt of terror in her stomach, “So we’re going to be monogamous and keep communication open?” she asks.

Quinn’s stomach settles. “Yes. That’s what I want. Do you?”

“Yes.”

Rachel raises her head and kisses Quinn. Quinn kisses back, and the passion that stress had laid dormant rises now. She holds Rachel to her, until Rachel squirms away, pulling back. “Sorry,” she murmurs, “I became awkwardly positioned on the couch.”

“Sorry,” Quinn says.

Rachel gazes at her for a moment, then smirks slightly, “We could just go into the bedroom for a bit. We definitely have some time before Brittany and Santana will be back.”

“That’s…a great idea, actually,” Quinn stands and helps Rachel up off the couch. It’s been hard to think about being alone with Rachel; the place has been in such chaos. But it’s a perfect opportunity, and she’s thinking about getting Rachel naked.

Rachel guides them into the bedroom, which is a mess of boxes, bags, and dismantled furniture. Basically only her bed and Santana’s is left unchanged, and Rachel pulls Quinn to her on the bed, hard enough that Quinn ends up straddling her. Rachel giggles in surprise and then kisses her.

Quinn pulls away after several long moments of kissing and murmurs between pecks, “How long do you think we have?”

“I don’t know. At least an hour,” Rachel responds breathily, stretching up to kiss Quinn’s chin and jaw.

“Okay. Good,” Quinn murmurs, kissing more. It’s really been since New Haven that they’ve gotten to do anything like this. There was never enough privacy in the apartment for more than a few brief makeout sessions. Never enough time for untucking shirts from skirts to slide hands underneath, like Quinn is doing now, or unzipping dresses, like Rachel is doing.

Gradually, between kisses, with awkward pauses to rearrange on the bed and to remove clothes, Rachel’s skirt and shirt are on the floor next to Quinn’s dress. Rachel is on her back, head on her pillows, while Quinn is half-draped over her, one hand teasing her breast beneath her bra, her mouth pressing wet kisses all along her neck, jaw, throat, chest, cheeks, lips. Rachel is squirming lightly, making breathy sounds, running fingers and nails lightly down back. Until her fingers catch on Quinn’s bra one too many times, and she simply unclasps it.

Quinn leans back, letting the bra fall off her shoulders and onto Rachel’s chest, and Rachel’s hands cup her breasts reverently. Quinn glances behind her, as if to reassure herself that the door is still closed, the apartment still empty. Rachel hides a grin by biting her lip. “We’re alone,” she reassures, and she shifts, sitting up to press her face to Quinn’s chest, kissing her sternum, her mouth trailing to find a nipple.

Quinn takes advantage of Rachel’s position to remove her bra, and once again, they’re down to their panties together, but this time, it’s different, because they’ve seen each other naked before, and as shy as Quinn still feels to be so exposed, she wants to see more of Rachel.

She presses Rachel back into the pillows, partly because she wants to kiss her again, but also so that she won’t blush at the way Rachel is looking at her breasts. She no longer feels quite so much shame to be under Rachel’s scrutiny, but the desire it stokes in her still makes her blush. And now Rachel’s breasts are bare, and she can put her mouth on them, and kiss all over her chest, and her stomach, and her hips.

Rachel feels her breath catching now, as Quinn kisses her way down her body, so close to where she is so hot and so wet. Quinn looks up at her and asks, her voice barely a croak, “Can I take these off?”

Rachel takes a second to think about what this might mean, and whether it might lead to something she is truly ready for, and her body, her heart, her mind, her pussy, all echo a resounding _yes_. Whatever this leads, it’s something she wants. “Yes, please,” is her soft response, and Quinn’s lip quirks a little as she begins to tug the panties down Rachel’s legs. Rachel lifts her hips to help, and feels the cool air hit her where she is so wet and open and hot…

Quinn crouches there, holding Rachel panties and staring at her. She seems frozen, and her eyes are wide and uncertain. Rachel sits up a little, closing her legs some as she does so, and Quinn looks at her. She leans forward again, kissing Rachel, and settling next to her. “I want this,” she tells Rachel.

“I do, too,” Rachel tells her, “But it’s also okay if it doesn’t happen.”

Quinn nods, her hand absent-mindedly trailing over Rachel’s torso, tracing her collarbone, the swell of her breast, circling her belly-button, stroking her abs, tickling her hipbones. Rachel giggles and squirms, and Quinn cracks a smile. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s okay. I like your touches,” Rachel tells her earnestly, meeting her eyes.

Quinn maintains that eye contact, barely able to breath, as she moves her hand lower, stroking the short, dark hair between her legs. And then, with two fingers, she tentatively touches.

Just like in the shower, it’s wet, and warm, and confusing. It all feels the same, like too many fleshy folds, too much for her to piece together. She probes, gradually discovering where the inner lips are, and sliding down to Rachel’s opening. Still watching Rachel, she dips her fingers in slightly, watching the way it makes Rachel sigh, her eyelids fluttering, but she retreats, explores more, trying to find Rachel’s clit with her slick fingers.

Just as she’s starting to feel hopeless and embarrassed, Rachel’s hand comes down to gently guide her hand, and abruptly she feels it, the elusive little nub. Rachel sighs like she’s been waiting for this her whole life, and her eyes close. “Yes. Right there,” she barely breathes.

Quinn circles gently, thinking about the way she likes to be touched, and watches to see if Rachel enjoys it, too. Rachel keeps closing her eyes, clearly enjoying the sensation, but also keeps opening them to look at Quinn. A part of Quinn wants to see what she’s touching, wants to really imprint in her mind what she’s doing so she can do it again, but Rachel’s face is so beautiful, so blissful, that she can’t make herself move.

After several minutes of touching, in which Quinn tries different strokes, different patterns, trying to find what Rachel likes, Rachel opens her eyes and asks, “Can you put your fingers inside?”

Quinn’s breath catches, and she’s nervous all over again. Can she find that part of Rachel again? She looks down her body, trying to see anything at all, but the angle is wrong. She wants to do this.

“You can look,” Rachel tells her, “it’s okay.”

“Okay,” Quinn murmurs, and she sits up, enough to see where her hand is. Rachel is pink and glistening and, while not exactly what Quinn would call beautiful, she looks incredible, and as she moves her fingers down and slowly begins to slide them inside, she thinks, _Oh_. _That_ is hot. _That_ is appealing, and she feels her body react to the sight and the sensations of her fingers sliding inside Rachel. Inside, engulfed in hot, wet flesh. Rachel lets out a little groan.

Quinn isn’t sure what to do. As far as she knows, things that go inside vaginas just slam around, but that hardly seems right, when the smallest movements of her fingertips, the slow sliding of her fingers, produces such pleased sounds from Rachel. Still, she slides her fingers in and out a few times, feeling how wet they are, and watches Rachel’s face. Before long, she tries to angle her hand so that her thumb is still touching Rachel’s clit.

Rachel, awash in sensation, lets Quinn move her fingers while trying to circle her thumb for awhile, but before long, her own hand is trailing down her body. “Let me touch myself. You just touch me…inside.” Quinn moves her hand, and slides her fingers in and out, curling her fingers subtly with each thrust. “ _Yes_ , like that,” Rachel pants, “Keep fucking me, Quinn.” It comes out stronger than she anticipates, and makes Quinn gasp a little. Rachel closes her eyes and touches herself, feeling Quinn touching her inside, building up a rhythm. She looks at Quinn, whose gaze is glued to her hand and Rachel’s working up a rhythm together. Her mouth is parted slightly, and she’s breathing harshly.

Quinn looks at Rachel, and then moves to lay down next to her again, kissing her face when she does. The angle is different, but she is still moving her fingers inside, less thrusts now, and more finger curls, and it feels even better.

“I’m going to come,” Rachel gasps, her eyes squeezing shut. Quinn kisses her shoulder, moaning in her throat, and then Rachel’s jaw is opening wide, and she hears the stuttered groans and gasps coming from her own mouth, while her hips roll erratically. Dimly, she hears Quinn utter God’s name, and Rachel rides out her orgasm for as long as she can keep moving her hand.

When she slumps back against the bed, her hands are shaking, and Quinn is staring at her, her fingers still pushed deep inside her. She removes them, slowly, a grimace passing over her face as she tries to decide what to do with all the wetness on them. Ultimately, she wipes them quickly on the sheets and then stares at Rachel again, who is blinking her in and out of focus, grinning blissfully. “Thank you,” Rachel murmurs.

“I uh, I,” Quinn can’t come up with a proper response, her upbringing failing her, and she just leans over to kiss Rachel instead. Rachel wraps her arms around her and just holds her.

When Rachel catches her breath, she loosens her hold on Quinn, who rises enough to kiss her again. Rachel sits up abruptly. “Can I do anything for you?” she asks.

“I….don’t know,” Quinn answers. Her body is aching to be touched, but it’s hard to ask for that to happen. She doesn’t know how to articulate what she wants.

“Lie down,” Rachel instructs, shifting on the bed to give Quinn more room. “And just please, tell me if anything feels too soon, okay?” she requests earnestly.

Quinn nods, lying back against the pillows. She watches as Rachel settles at the foot of the bed, tries not to squirm as Rachel surveys her nearly nude body, and sighs as Rachel’s hand stretches out to gently touch her, her hand following her gaze, all over Quinn.

Finally, Rachel’s gaze settles between her legs, and she darts her eyes up to Quinn’s face. “Can I take these off?”

Quinn nods, unable to trust her voice, and lifts her hips to help Rachel remove her panties. She tries to settle her legs and hips down casually, tries not to lock them together like she wants to do. Rachel’s gaze is darting all over, looking at Quinn but trying not to stare, and looking at her face to gauge her comfort. Quinn smiles weakly.

“You’re beautiful,” Rachel sighs, her hand stroking Quinn’s hips and thighs softly, her thumb trailing just above anything truly intimate. Quinn tries hard to believe her.

Quinn becomes abruptly aware of how wet she is, and parts her legs just a little more, unconsciously. Rachel focuses on the action. Quinn swallows, then deliberately parts them a little more, and Rachel’s thumb strokes down more this time, touching one of Quinn’s outer lips. Quinn shivers, and Rachel watches her face. “Can I touch you?” she asks.

“Yes,” Quinn answers, her mouth dry, then she adds, “Please.”

Rachel’s thumb circles inward, stroking inner lips now, swiping up slowly toward Quinn’s clit, brushing past it. She repeats a similar pattern a few more times, sliding over and through Quinn’s folds, eyes darting from them to Quinn’s face all the while. Quinn feels extremely exposed, extremely scrutinized, but undeniably turned on. She wishes she’d taken more time to look at Rachel like this, to get to know her body. There were still fears and insecurities in the back of her mind, about the female body, that she knows she needs to work to overcome. And she is. And they are.

Finally, Rachel’s thumb moves with more purpose, to circle Quinn’s clit almost directly. Quinn sighs, feeling her hips twitch in reaction, and Rachel watches her as she circles slowly. Quinn enjoys the sensations for what they are—pleasant, but they aren’t going to get her off.

Still circling with her thumb, Rachel’s other hand moves lower, barely touching Quinn’s entrance. “May I touch you inside?” Rachel asks, tightness in her throat betraying her eagerness, her arousal.

“Yes,” Quinn tells her after some hesitation. Exploring herself didn’t produce much of a reaction from being touched there, but maybe Rachel can find something she couldn’t.

Rachel slides inside, a tiny little “Oh, Quinn,” escaping her throat as she does so. Quinn braces herself, like she expects discomfort, but Rachel’s fingers find no resistance. Quinn’s breath picks up at Rachel’s little moan, and she feels _so_ strangely sexy in the moment, just lying on her back, her legs spread, a woman’s hand slowly working her.

Rachel’s fingers are just still inside, her thumb circling, until Quinn whispers, “You can go faster.”

Rachel’s eyes are bright, eager, and her thumb circles faster, and the fingers inside start pumping, still slowly, but steadily.

This is more like it, Quinn thinks. Although as the touching continues, it almost feels like Rachel’s fingers inside are distracting Quinn from the building sensation on her clit. She waits for awhile longer, waiting to see if it will change, until she finally requests tentatively, “Can your hand inside…stay still?”

“Of course. Sorry,” Rachel murmurs, “I got eager.”

“Don’t apologize, just…keep touching me,” Quinn says, closing her eyes and focusing on the pleasure. Unlike Rachel, who seemed to really like being penetrated, Quinn isn’t sure it works for her. But maybe it’s something they can explore more.

Several more minutes pass, with Rachel’s fingers inside still, her thumb making firm, consistent circles over Quinn’s clit, and she isn’t there. She’s starting to get frustrated, she’s starting to feel ridiculous, and boring, and no amount of Rachel’s eager eyes taking her in make her feel sexy anymore. “I’m sorry,” she finally says, “I don’t think I can.”

“I can stop if you want me to,” Rachel tells her, “That’s perfectly okay. But I don’t mind trying for a little longer. Maybe with you showing me how to touch.”

Quinn groans a little in frustration. She is certainly very turned on, she certainly wants to come, but it’s like there’s a mental block, something in her brain that’s afraid to let it happen. “Okay. Let me show you.”

She moves her hand down to circle her clit, and Rachel watches eagerly, putting her hand in place. “Like this?” she asks.

“No, more like…” Quinn moves her hand over Rachel’s, and it’s weird, moving someone else’s fingers with her own, and it takes awhile to feel right, but finally, she gets Rachel’s fingers moving just how she likes it. “Like that. Just. Keep them still, I’ll do it,” she says, already feeling something building in her lower stomach.

“Yes,” Rachel says softly, keeping both her hands still and watching Quinn hungrily. Quinn keeps her eyes close to focus on the sensations, feeling it build, feeling herself get closer, until…

“God, I’m so close,” she whines.

“Take your time, I’m right here,” Rachel whispers, remaining still, while Quinn manipulates her fingers over herself, until she’s squeezing Rachel’s fingers _so hard_ and it pushes her over the edge harder than ever, and she’s bucking, she’s groaning, she’s gasping for air, and when she comes down from her orgasm, she’s not sure if she’s laughing or crying.

“Are you okay?” Rachel asks, removing her hands and climbing up to be next to Quinn.

“Yes,” Quinn murmurs, and Rachel kisses her face several times, “Oh my God. Yes. I just can’t believe…I’m in shock,” she admits.

“Good shock, I hope,” Rachel whispers.

“Yes.” And then she’s definitely crying, “I’m sorry,” she babbles, “I’m sorry I took control and didn’t let you get me off.”

“Baby,” Rachel whispers, “You made me a part of it. Even if it was your hand that got you there, that was us making love. It’s really no different than what I did. We’re new at this. We both have a lot to learn about getting off together.”

“Yeah,” Quinn wipes her eyes, feeling stupid, “I can’t believe I’m crying after sex. I’m such a girl.”

Rachel laughs, “That is definitely something I like about you.” And it’s true, she thinks. It’s no longer something about Quinn that scares her or that she feels ambivalent about. She loves that Quinn is a girl, because she’s Quinn.

She settles next to Quinn, holding her, and Quinn gains control of herself quickly, blinking back tears and settling down. “Sorry,” she says again.

“Don’t apologize,” Rachel tells her, “Nothing is wrong. We made love and it was amazing, and…” she pauses. “Quinn. Can I say something?”

“I guess,” Quinn shrugs.

“That…thing you almost said in the living room.” Quinn stills, and Rachel pushes on, “I don’t know if I’m ready to say it yet, either, but I want you to know that I feel it, too.”

Quinn exhales and buries her face in Rachel’s chest. “Me, too. So much more than ever before.”

 

_I just know that something good is going to happen_

 

As stress relief goes, making love in the bedroom they are soon to leave, where so many parts of their relationship came together, is incredibly effective. They cuddle naked for several long minutes longer, and then get dressed and Febreze the bedroom and go back out to the living room only minutes before Santana and Brittany come back. Quinn feels like it has to be definitely noticeable, that something so life-changing has just occurred between them, but somehow Santana and Brittany don’t seem to notice. Maybe because Santana is laughing now, at something Brittany says as she comes in, and maybe because Santana had been making fun of them for banging everywhere for so long that Quinn is sure neither of them even blush when Santana queries whether the couch is safe to sit on.

Rachel rolls her eyes and said, “Of course, Santana. Do you really think we’d have sex in a shared space?”

Santana shrugs, “ _I_ don’t know. It wouldn’t stop me.”

“Yeah, but you’re a pig,” Rachel returns playfully, while Brittany and Quinn earnestly nod. Santana playfully slaps Rachel’s shoulder in response, then flops down next to her and grabs the Wiimote to change _Ally McBeal_ to something else.

The move isn’t exactly fun, but it happens. Rachel, Quinn and Santana stay at the old apartment to load the moving van that Brittany’s dad drives back and forth, and keep separate the things their subletters who have already signed the lease for mid-August are bringing in. Kurt, Brittany and Brittany’s mom unload it on the other side, doing their best to organize things while they wait for the next load. Lord Tubbington is locked in the bathroom with his litter box and food, cowering and traumatized after the long drive from Lima. Brittany’s parents take back a few items: Santana’s twin bed, now upgraded to the double she shares with Brittany, a little beside table Kurt had specifically bought for Blaine that he doesn’t want, Kurt’s twin bed; even without Blaine, he’s upgrading to a bigger bed, since it fits in his bedroom.

Brittany’s parents stay long enough to buy and share several pizzas with the new tenants, and to open a bottle of champagne for them all to share (Brittany’s mom had always been okay with giving Brittany a glass on special occasions). Once they leave to return the van and to get a hotel, Santana and Kurt almost immediately start fighting about how to arrange the living room, and, asked to mediate, Rachel gets drawn into the argument with her own perspective. Quinn stays out of it completely, retreating to a corner with her book, and it takes a compromise from Brittany for them to find a solution that works. They unpack and arrange until they’re exhausted and it feels natural, even though beds are mostly set up, to make a blanket pile in the middle of the living room and sleep in a circle. When Kurt says softly, as they’re all about to fall asleep, that he wishes Blaine were here, Rachel and Brittany smother him from either side until they’re all asleep.

Soon, the apartment is set up, and they fall into a routine. They figure out who should shower when, Brittany goes out and successfully finds a part-time job at a burger restaurant. Santana gets back on her night schedule, and she and Brittany find time to enjoy their afternoons together.

Rachel goes to a meeting with Gretchen and her uncle, and he says he remembers her from _Theo and the Science Labyrinth_ , loves her talent, and would be happy to work with her about discretion with her sexuality, if that’s what she chooses. Then he tells her to contact him when she graduates and he’d love to represent her. Gretchen tells her she’s definitely in, and that he’s asking her to finish college first to make sure she can handle a long-term commitment like finishing school. She’s also gone to a few auditions at the recommendation of Jesse that went pretty well, though hasn’t landed anything yet, but she’s putting herself out there. In addition, she gets a call from Neal, the friend of Gretchen and Jeremy’s that she worked with on _Theseus_ , right after she moves. He’s going to be in his final year at NYADA, and he tells her that he’s working on a new musical for next fall and he definitely wants her for the lead.

There’s no “big break” yet, but Rachel knows it’s coming.

Soon, it’s time for Quinn to go back to Lima for most of the rest of the summer. Rachel is planning to spend a few weeks in Lima herself, but won’t be going back until Quinn has been there for two weeks. It’s weird, because they’ve gotten used to having a fifth person in the house, like they all planned, but she’s a guest.

They spend their last night together in Rachel’s now very-private bedroom. It’s about as small as Kurt’s old bedroom in the last apartment was, but it’s fine. As used to sharing a room with Santana as she got, Rachel likes having her own space.

Besides, they’ve definitely found time to explore together. It feels like now that they’ve started, they’ve barely been able to stop. They’re both definitely getting more used to each others’ bodies, and sex itself.

“I’m going to miss you,” Rachel says into Quinn’s collarbone, her voice breaking, as they cuddle naked.

“Me, too,” Quinn responds, “But I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah. But then we’ll be dodging parents any time we want to try to have sex,” Rachel makes a face. “That’s even worse than dodging roommates.”

Quinn cracks a smile, “I’m sure we’ll find a way.”

“Yeah,” Rachel says thoughtfully, “You’re right. We always will,” and by the certainty in her voice, Quinn knows she means more than finding a place for sex.

“I’ll always try, if you will,” she murmurs, kissing Rachel’s forehead.

They fall asleep together, both confident and eager for the future that awaits them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter titles from Peaches, “Fuck the Pain Away,” Regina Spektor, “Eet,” My Brightest Diamond, “Golden Star,” and Kate Bush, “Cloudbusting.”
> 
> OC Guide:  
> Angela: Santana's now former fuckbuddy, met through work  
> Helen: Santana's sarcastic gay coworker friend, just got back on speaking terms because Helen felt like Santana lied to her and used her  
> Merry: Young lesbian in Glee, friends with Brittany, Blaine, Karofsky and Unique  
> Gretchen: Female lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they've confided in each other and become friendly  
> Jeremy: Male lead in the original play Rachel is cast in, they hook up at Gretchen's party, awkward since  
> Neal: Gay actor in the original play Rachel has a secondary role in
> 
> I want to thank everybody who has stuck with me through this fic. It was a labor of love. When Season 3 ended, I was struck with a very specific vision of the paths all these characters would embark on. Telling these stories has been very important to me. There’s a little bit of me and everyone I know in these characters and their struggles to find their places in the world.  
> Their stories may not end here. I have a few spinoff fics in mind that I may write eventually. One Puck-centric, one Brittana-centric and one Faberry-centric. Look for those, potentially, on AO3 someday.  
> I specifically want to thank Pooh, Kben, JT and Poetz, whose encouragement at different times made all the difference in this fic getting finished. Thanks for believing in me.  
> (It is possible that I may do some small edits to earlier chapters, mostly for clarity, but they will only appear here, and not on FFnet.)


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